


Three Minute Record

by princejake



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-23
Updated: 2015-05-06
Packaged: 2018-01-09 17:22:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 50,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1148760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princejake/pseuds/princejake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire is a recent college dropout who is zero percent sure about his future and even less sure about how to manage his woefully unmanageable crush on the president of the new student activism group. Enjolras is a baby-faced force of nature who is very clear on his own future, but decidedly unclear on what to do about the annoyingly jaded twenty-something who keeps coming to all their meetings despite the fact that he’s not a student and doesn’t even believe in what they’re doing. Their friends are fairly confident the two of them will figure it out eventually (and would like to point out that they occasionally have their own problems to worry about, thanks).</p>
<p>A college au that is ostensibly about nothing in particular, but is secretly about growing up, realizing what’s important to you, and laying claim to your life with both hands. Or, you know, something.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was conceived for two reasons. One, ever since I read the Brick last summer I haven't been able to stop imagining modern day Amis shenanigans (I understand it's a common affliction). And more crucially, I really wanted a fic where Combeferre was explicitly black. So I figured I'd play in the sandbox a bit. Hope someone else gets some enjoyment out of it!

In hindsight, Grantaire should have realized he was in for trouble the moment Courfeyrac comes barreling into the shop, barely avoiding knocking over the entire display of secondhand Chomsky books, and practically leaps across the counter to exclaim "IT'S HAPPENING!" in his face before slapping down a wad of bills.

Having known Courfeyrac for the better part of a year now, Grantaire has long gotten used to passionately noisy outbursts from him. He once witnessed the other boy get into a shouting match with a professor over the significance of Dadaism, which culminated in Courfeyrac flipping over a chair and screaming "THIS CLASS IS HORSESHIT!" before walking out. Of course that was back in the days when Grantaire was still attempting to give two fucks about college, before he dropped out and started alternating his time between working odd jobs and spending as little time sober as possible. Courfeyrac was actually one of the few friends from school Grantaire had bothered to keep in touch with after leaving -- he's just one of those people you can't help but want to be around. Even when he's shouting at you for no apparent reason he manages to do it endearingly.

"Didn't anyone ever tell you you're not supposed to yell in bookstores?" Grantaire brushes a fleck of spit off his cheek that had escaped Courfeyrac's mouth in his enthusiasm. "Oh wait, yes they did, and I know this for a fact because I tell it to you every other time you come in here."

Courf is better at looking mock-offended than anyone Grantaire's ever met. He thinks it has something to do with the way his already-bushy eyebrows get somehow indignantly bushier. "Remind me again which of us got thrown out of Lucky's last month for heckling the people doing karaoke?"

"Last time I checked it was socially acceptable to be a loud asshole in a bar, especially when drunk sorority girls are butchering Queen. Being a loud asshole in a bookstore, not so much." Grantaire takes a moment to thank the forces at work in the universe that both the bookstore and the mini coffeeshop it includes are empty of customers just now. The last thing he would need is to have one of their regulars make a complaint about the barista's friend causing a disturbance. He likes this job a hell of a lot more than the last place he worked and he isn't trying to get fired after just three months.

"Sorry, I'll make a note for the future. Wouldn't want to rob you of your King Asshole crown." As he speaks, Courfeyrac is hurriedly fishing in the pocket of his too-tight charcoal jeans and comes up with a scrap of paper, which he squints at before holding it out towards Grantaire. "Here, should be six coffees and two hot chocolates."

Grantaire takes the paper and scans it -- a list of drink orders in miniscule yet still perfectly legible handwriting. He starts filling cups, noticing more than a couple requests for an extra shot of espresso. "You having a book club meeting here or something?"

"Or something," Courfeyrac laughs, lounging against the counter. "Well, it's actually not here, we're around the corner. I just volunteered to make the caffeine run. So no worries, your precious store isn't about to be overrun by hordes of the radical liberal college activists your mother always warned you about."

"Hordes of what now?" The word _activists_ sparks something in Grantaire's memory. "Oh hang on, is this that social justice club you’ve been ranting about?" Apparently there’s a brand new student organization Courfeyrac has gotten himself involved in that does things like run canned food drives, or campaign for LGBT rights, or possibly perform jazzy musical numbers about the injustice of Bradley Cooper being named People's Sexiest Man Alive when that honor clearly belongs to Idris Elba. Full disclosure -- Grantaire has no idea what the group does or even what it’s called, and he doesn’t particularly care. He’s sure Courfeyrac has mentioned the details once or twice but he couldn't be bothered to remember. Fresh-faced idealism is wasted on him, and as much as he and Courfeyrac get along, Grantaire’s learned that humanity's capacity to save itself from itself is one subject on which they firmly disagree.

Courfeyrac rolls his eyes good-naturedly. "Yeah, that's the one. Today’s our first protest, it’s kind of a big deal."

"And what exactly are you protesting?"

"'The Reprehensible Dominance of Capitalism Over the Rights of the Individual,'" Courfeyrac replies almost casually, tossing up finger quotes around the words.

Grantaire blinks slowly at him for effect. "Want to run that by me again in words that actually explain what you're talking about?" Courfeyrac's eyes crinkle as he lets out a short laugh.

"Sorry, couldn't resist paraphrasing our fearless leader there. His vocabulary can get dramatic when he's excited." An image springs to Grantaire's mind of some pretentious pre-law student, complete with excessively ironed khakis and a prematurely receding hairline. _Probably looking to get some nominal community outreach on his resume before he fucks off to a big-time firm and forgets all about the starving kids downtown._ "You know the old Zephyr movie theater one block over?" Grantaire nods an affirmative, concentrated on not burning himself on the steamed milk. "Well it's been almost bankrupt for a while now, and then the other day the bank called their loan knowing they couldn't afford to pay. Apparently some jackass real estate developer wants to demolish it and put up an apartment building."

“Hey, real estate developers gotta eat like the rest of us.” Courfeyrac shoots him a Look that plainly says _I know you’re just arguing for the sake of being a dick_. Unfazed, Grantaire beams an obnoxious smile back at him. “So what are you and the Justice League planning to do about it?”

“Stop the demolition, obviously.” Courfeyrac’s grinning a tiny bit as he says it, and there’s a glint in his eyes that makes Grantaire suspicious -- that added to the way his friend had burst into the shop like World War III was going to break out any second. He wouldn’t be this excited if all they were going to do was wave some signs around.

“Please tell me you’re not planning on handcuffing yourself in front of the bulldozers or something equally cliche and ridiculous.” The grin widens until Grantaire can practically count Courfeyrac’s teeth. “You ARE! Oh my god, I’m actually embarrassed for you. And usually I’m the one making people feel secondhand embarrassment for me, so congratulations on reversing the natural order. At least you’ve accomplished that even if you don’t do anything else productive today.”

Courfeyrac starts to retrieve the coffees that Grantaire’s already finished making and stack them in one of the to-go drink trays. “Don’t act like you haven’t always wanted an excuse to see me chained up,” he shoots back. The statement is followed by a truly outrageous eyebrow waggle and Grantaire can’t hold back a snort of laughter. Contrary to the widespread belief among their former dormmates, he and Courfeyrac had never been interested in getting into each others’ pants.

“Yeah, you got me there. And the anti-capitalist context makes it even hotter. I’m gonna go home tonight and jerk off to the mental image of you in nothing but chains and a flower crown singing Big Yellow Taxi.” That gets a proper laugh out of Courfeyrac, head thrown back and nose scrunched up. Grantaire waits until it subsides to hand him the two hot chocolates. “Here you go, have fun sticking it to the Man. Watch out for tear gas.”

“It’s not like we’re planning a riot, jesus.” Grantaire decides not to bother pointing out that riots don’t always require planning. Courfeyrac needs two trays to carry all the drinks. He scoops one of them up with one hand, starting to nudge the stack of money towards Grantaire with his other before he stops as if considering something. “Hey, how late are you working tonight?”

“We close at 8, I’m here until then. Why?”

Courfeyrac chews his lip for a second, then asks, “If I put these on my card and leave the money with you, is there any way you could bring us another round of drinks after your shift? I know it’s a pain but we could all probably use the extra caffeine by then.”

“Well I guess it’s the least I can do for such an upstanding cause.” Grantaire tucks the money away under the cash drawer for safekeeping, and tacks the list of drink orders to the bulletin board underneath the menu displayed on the back wall. “You really think you’re going to be out that late?”

“Oh hell yeah, we’re going to be out there all night,” Courfeyrac confirms, pulling his wallet from his back pocket and handing his credit card over for Grantaire to swipe. “Go hard or go home, right?”

Grantaire stares incredulously at him. “You’re seriously going to sleep on a sidewalk? In handcuffs?” Courfeyrac shrugs.

“Why not? If I can camp out on a sidewalk for half a day to be the first in line for Watchmen, I can do it when there’s actually something important at stake.”

“You camped out for _Watchmen_?” Somehow Grantaire isn’t surprised. “You’re such a nerd, man. I thought you were into breaking racial stereotypes, not living up to them.”

“If you live your life actively trying to go against stereotypes, that’s just a different way of conforming to racism,” Courfeyrac points out. “Although I guess comic book movies technically qualify, but if I was going for stereotypical I would have told you I camped out for... I dunno, Star Trek? At least that one had a Japanese character. I really have no idea what kind of movies you all think we’re ‘supposed’ to be into.”

“The Last Airbender,” Grantaire supplies helpfully, and Courfeyrac actually gags as he pockets his wallet again.

“I’m going to forget you mentioned that abomination in front of me,” he mutters, picking up the second tray of coffees. “Alright then, I’m off to go destroy capitalism. Wish me luck!”

“I’d say not to do anything I wouldn’t do, but you’re already past that point,” Grantaire observes. Courfeyrac just winks at him before departing.

Later on, a part of Grantaire will regret not telling Courfeyrac that he doesn’t get paid to be a delivery boy. But then again he’s never been very good at saying no to people.

*

8:00 rolls around to find Grantaire humming tunelessly as he finishes a final wipedown of the counters. He tosses the cleaning rag back into its bucket beneath the counter, pulls off his barista apron, and grabs the trays of drinks he had prepared just a few minutes before. There’s a text from Eponine burning a hole in his pocket ( _“parents” gone for the night. back to the future and pillow fort cuddles after you get off. bring vodka_ ), but he’s got a stop to make first. He nods goodbye to his boss as he leaves, bumping the door open with his hip and stepping outside. The air has a faintly earthy smell to it, like there could be rain later. Sucks for Courfeyrac and the anti-capitalism brigade. Sucks for Grantaire, too, if it doesn’t hold off until he can make it to the Thenardiers’. He doesn’t mind biking in the rain but he could do without the jackasses who drive through puddles at 40 mph and don’t notice or care who they’re splashing.

It’s only one block down the street, a turn, and then another block to the theatre. Grantaire can see the protest scene as soon as he rounds the corner. There’s a crowd of about thirty or so people gathered beneath the marquee, and a disgruntled looking construction crew parked across the street. Apparently not all the protesters have gone so far as to handcuff themselves. Through the gaps in the crowd Grantaire can make out a chain and padlock that had been used to secure the door. The chain appears to extend a couple yards in either direction -- there’s a line of maybe a dozen people standing cuffed to it. Courfeyrac’s familiar curly head is faintly visible past the theater entrance, but as Grantaire draws closer, he recognizes the two people standing at the end of the chain nearest to him.

“Oi! Marius!” The person in question turns in confusion, eyes widening when they land on Grantaire. They’re not particularly close -- outside of the few mandatory intro classes they had together last year, Grantaire probably wouldn’t have spoken to the kid if he wasn’t Courfeyrac’s roommate. Awkward as hell, but his heart’s in the right place. Grantaire would have figured him too introverted for the whole community activism thing, though. “Did Courf drag you here?”

“It was more of a joint effort,” Marius explains, tipping his head towards the tiny (at 5’4”, Grantaire reserves the right to call anyone shorter than him “tiny”) girl next to him, who laughs and pats his arm affectionately.

“To be fair, most of the effort was his. I wouldn’t have gone as far as threatening to put peroxide in your shampoo.”

“No, you would have been more creative,” Marius mutters.

The corner of Cosette’s mouth quirks up at that. “Well thankfully I didn’t have to be, since you’re too protective to let me do this by myself.”

“Speaking of protective, I can’t imagine your dad knows you’re out here,” Grantaire observes. Professor Fauchelevent is known for being possibly the chillest faculty member on campus -- except when it comes to his daughter. Not that Grantaire can blame him, really. College boys collectively should never be trusted around anybody’s daughter. Fortunately for his girlfriend’s dad, Marius is a gentleman. Thanks to Courfeyrac’s compulsive need to gossip, Grantaire knows for a fact it took Marius almost a week before he worked up the nerve to even kiss Cosette’s hand. It’s kind of sweet.

Cosette shrugs innocently. “I told him I was going to a sleepover. It wasn’t a 100% lie.”

“Sure, you just conveniently forgot to mention that the sleepover was happening on a sidewalk, in handcuffs, while a bunch of ticked off construction workers who aren’t gonna get paid debate whether it’s worth running you over with a backhoe,” Grantaire replies. Cosette shrugs again, but her green eyes are gleaming wickedly. Marius huffs a sigh of resignation while Grantaire snickers. “So I’m guessing two of these belong to you?” he asks, nodding towards the trays in his hands.

“Two hot chocolates!” Cosette chirps. Grantaire balances one tray in the crook of his arm as he passes her and Marius their cups. A bald protester handcuffed on the other side of Marius notices the exchange and shuffles closer.

“Hey, are you Courfeyrac’s friend?” he asks Grantaire. “He mentioned someone was stopping by with coffee later.”

“Guilty as charged,” Grantaire answers. “What’s your poison?”

“Should be one iced coffee and one caramel latte.” Grantaire locates the drinks and hands them over. The stranger passes the latte to his neighbor, keeping the other for himself. Grantaire’s about to head over to Courfeyrac when the guy with the latte suddenly squints at him. “Sorry if this sounds creepy, but do I know you from somewhere?” he blurts out. Grantaire pauses to consider it. He doesn’t think they’ve ever met -- the face in front of him is distinctive enough that he’d remember if they had, hazel with darker freckles sprinkled across his round nose and cheeks.

“I dunno man, maybe? I was at the university last year but it didn’t really work out.” Grantaire feels that familiar sinking sensation that always accompanies thoughts about how colossally he failed at school -- even though he was majoring in something he actually enjoyed he couldn’t get his shit together. Typical. “Anyway, enjoy the coffees.” He shoulders his way through the crowd without waiting for a response.

There’s still four drinks unaccounted for. Grantaire dumps the empty tray in the trash can next to the theater door. He comes up behind Courfeyrac, who’s on tiptoes trying to get a look at something going on a bit further up the sidewalk -- there’s a tight cluster of people and Grantaire can hear raised voices. He considers being an asshole and blowing in his friend’s ear (there are few things Courfeyrac hates more), but decides against it and taps his shoulder instead. Courfeyrac drops back down onto the flats of his feet and spins around, smiling when he sees who it is.

“Hey honey bunch!” he coos, flinging his free arm around Grantaire’s shoulders and briefly nuzzling his hair. Clearly his excitement hasn’t gone down since the last time Grantaire saw him. “We’re having SO much fun without you, you don’t know what you’re missing. I almost got hit in the balls with a pair of bolt cutters earlier.”

“We don’t actually _know_ that’s where he was aiming,” the guy next to Courfeyrac interjects. Grantaire’s no fashion consultant by a long shot -- he’ll wear the same pair of jeans three days in a row -- but he’s pretty sure that nobody on earth could pull off neon orange pants with a paisley shirt. That hasn’t stopped this dude from trying though.

“Courf, if I wanted to see you take a shot to the nuts all I’d have to do is tell Charlotte Gaspard that her boyfriend only realized he was gay and dumped her after he hooked up with you,” Grantaire points out.

“You wouldn’t dare,” Courfeyrac replies confidently, accepting his coffee. “Oh, the white chocolate mocha is for Jehan,” he adds, jerking his thumb towards his garishly dressed neighbor. Jehan smiles politely and pushes his hair out of his eyes -- the right side of his head is completely shaved, the rest of his hair hanging just past his ear. He’s cute once you look past the unfortunate fashion choice, Grantaire decides. “And the double espresso is for Enjolras, who...” Courfeyrac glances over his shoulder. “Should be done screaming at the big bad men in suits any minute now.” Grantaire lifts his head, follows Courfeyrac’s line of vision --

\-- and forgets how to breathe for a moment.

The crowd standing just past them has unbunched enough for Grantaire to see the center of attention. Two men are in a heated argument with easily the most gorgeous individual he’s ever laid eyes on. Between the messy blonde ponytail and the pouty lips Grantaire needs a moment to determine that the person is, as far as he can see, male. His hands gesture wildly as he shouts, the bound one jerking against the confines of his cuffs. There are spots of color on his high cheekbones and even from this distance his eyes are clearly blazing. Grantaire can’t remember seeing anything half as beautiful.

Eventually he regains his senses, in time to hear a derisive laugh that’s as perfect as the mouth it came from. “Oh, really? You’re gonna sue us? Please do, and then maybe we’ll be able to figure out why exactly the bank called Mr. Rosier’s loan when just last week he was granted a ten day extension _in writing_. And if you’re counting on us settling for some non-profit legal aid instead of shelling out for a lawyer who knows how to deal with you people, think again, so by all means! Take this to court if that’s how you want to play it and see how far you get.”

One of the suits whispers in the other’s ear before he turns to the golden-haired boy -- _Enjolras_ , Grantaire reminds himself, and even the sound of the name inside his own head feels like a lightning strike, like something electrifying winding its way down his spine. “Son, we really don’t want to have to come back out here tomorrow. Don’t make us get the police involved.”

Enjolras’ chin thrusts forward defiantly. “Save the intimidation tactics. The police don’t scare me, and I’m not going to _make_ you do anything. You’re the ones who signed up to work with liars and parasites. Take legal action if you’re going to, but if you’re not, I’d appreciate it if you stopped wasting both our time.”

The man purses his lips and hands Enjolras a business card, saying, “Tell Mr. Rosier he’s got 24 hours to clear you kids out of here. We’ll be in touch,” before he and his partner make their retreat. Courfeyrac whistles loudly and leads bystanders in a brief round of applause, prompting Enjolras to walk over and swat him lightly on the back of the head.

“Flippancy doesn’t help us, Courfeyrac.”

“Who’s being flippant?” Courfeyrac demands. “My congratulations are 100% sincere, as always. You should be proud of the fact that you can make grown men shit themselves. It’s a talent I’ve always admired but never mastered. Oh yeah, and the coffee’s here. Caffeinate before you pass out, you’ve been on your feet yelling all day.”

Enjolras’ eyes -- the bluest fucking eyes in the world, jesus -- flick over to Grantaire for the first time. He has absurdly long eyelashes, Grantaire thinks as he holds out the double espresso. Enjolras accepts it with a “thank you,” gratefulness evident in his voice. Grantaire tries and fails not to focus on the fleeting skin on skin contact.

“So you’re a friend of Courfeyrac’s?” Enjolras inquires after taking a lengthy sip of his coffee. “Did he tell you what all this is for?”

“Sticking it to big business, from what I hear,” Grantaire replies. This kid is in _college_? He looks barely legal, creamy skin without a hint of facial hair. Grantaire catches himself wondering if the rest of his body is as baby-smooth as his face. He is so fucked. “Single-handedly striking terror into the real estate community one corrupt developer at a time, right? Good for you.”

A crease appears on Enjolras’ brow like he can’t tell whether Grantaire is mocking him or not, but he presses on regardless. “Well, we’ll be here through tonight and at least tomorrow morning if you want to come out and join us. The more people we have the better, especially if you’re from the area. We could really use more local support.”

Courfeyrac lets loose a strangled coughing noise and makes eye contact with Grantaire as if to say ‘Let him down gently, he doesn’t know any better.’ Grantaire doesn’t know whether he feels more like laughing or crying. The first attractive guy to invite him anywhere in months, and it’s an invitation to a pointless rally for a building that’s going to get knocked down in ten days anyway. “Ahh, thanks for the offer, but I’m afraid it’s wasted on me. I don’t do well with PDO.”

“PDO?”

“Public displays of optimism,” Grantaire explains helpfully. He can practically hear Courfeyrac’s eyeroll. The crease on Enjolras’ forehead deepens, and he opens his mouth as if to argue, but then his gaze shifts to just over Grantaire’s shoulder. Blue eyes widen, and before Grantaire knows what’s happening Enjolras is reaching past him to grab someone’s arm and pull them forward.

“How’d the hearing go?”

The new arrival is apparently used to being yanked around by Enjolras -- he merely straightens his glasses and makes no move to dislodge the fingers curled in his sleeve. “Everything’s good. I was on the phone with the preservation bureau for almost an hour making sure the application went through, but they got it and the review’s set for first thing tomorrow.” He passes Enjolras a sheaf of papers. “There’s the copies for you. And a transcript of the opposing statements -- take a look at the second page, I thought you’d appreciate it.”

Grantaire barely has a chance to register before Enjolras is plucking the final coffee from the tray in his hands and passing it to the newcomer, all without even looking at him. He’s focused on the papers, lips pursed in concentration. Grantaire is acutely aware of the fact that he no longer has a reason to be here, but he doesn’t have the will to move his feet, lost in tracing the contours of Enjolras’ face with his eyes. It’s only Courfeyrac’s hand on his shoulder that makes him look away.

“You could still stick around, you know,” Courfeyrac suggests mildly. Way too mildly. Damn, he must have been ridiculously obvious.

“I could, except for the part where I have a best friend who’d be very disappointed if I missed out on her vodka and pillow fort festivities. Especially since I’m the one supplying the vodka.”

Courfeyrac sighs theatrically. “Yeah, yeah. Tell Ponine I said hey.” Grantaire tosses him a casual salute as he leaves. He can’t stop himself from taking a last quick look back -- Enjolras and his friend are standing pressed against each other, one light head and one dark one bent over the papers in Enjolras’ hands. As he watches, Courfeyrac shuffles over to Enjolras’ other side and slings an arm around his shoulders. Absurdly, Grantaire feels a tiny stab of jealousy in the back of his mind and has to laugh at himself for it. Wanting things he can’t have has been a theme in his life for long enough that he should know better than to get upset about it now.

Grantaire finds himself suddenly itching to get over to Eponine’s as fast as possible. Drinking himself into a coma tonight is sounding more appealing by the second.

*

“Took you long enough!” Eponine says by way of greeting when she opens the door in nothing but a faded grey t-shirt that hangs almost to her knees. “Did you go all the way to Russia for that vodka or what?”

“I’m in trouble,” Grantaire responds, scraping the soles of his boots once against the door sill before he steps inside. It’s twenty minutes by bike from his job to his apartment, and another ten minutes from there to the Thenardiers’, and during that whole time Grantaire couldn’t get his mind off of golden curls and blue eyes bright with an almost revolutionary fervor. It’s possible he’s even more fucked than he originally thought.

Eponine narrows her eyes at him. “Trouble like police trouble, or...?”

“God no. Should have clarified that, sorry.” Eponine’s family and their circle of acquaintances being the way they are, it’s natural she would assume the worst. “Although I’d hope if I did show up here running away from the cops you’d be cool with it.”

Eponine pulls a face as if to say _why is this even a question_. “So then what kind of trouble are we --” She breaks off to stare in amusement as her younger sister ducks around her, wordlessly snatches the alcohol bottle from Grantaire, and heads for the kitchenette area with it.

“Nice to see you too!” Grantaire calls after her. “Help yourself!”

Azelma swivels to face him, eyebrow arched with an expertise that can only come from sixteen years of growing up with Eponine as a sister. “You want me to fix you a screwdriver or not?” Grantaire grins and blows her a kiss. He’d always felt like he was missing out growing up as an only child, and when he and Eponine started hanging out back in high school he was quick to adopt her little sister and brother as his own. It’s worked out well for all of them. The Thenardier parents tend to be more concerned with finding increasingly dubious ways to pay their bills than with providing a nurturing home environment. Grantaire supposes it must be why their kids are as self-sufficient as they are (seriously, he’s never met a thirteen-year-old as scarily competent as Gavroche), but it also means that the only stability in their lives has come from each other, and then from Grantaire after he was accepted into their little bubble. He’s slept over here during too many troubled nights to count -- the four of them would push Eponine and Azelma’s beds together and drift to sleep in a bundle of curved limbs and laced fingers, feeling each other breathe and pretending not to hear the raised voices just outside the bedroom door. It’s not as if Grantaire has any delusions that they would have fallen to pieces without him, he knows them better than that. But he also knows how it feels to be starved for affection and too proud to admit it. So he latched onto them, and vice versa, and now five years later he’s the older brother they never had and it’s as simple as that.

“As I was saying,” Eponine continues, “why are you in trouble and who with?”

“Myself or the universe, depending on how you look at it. Or both. Actually, let’s just go with both.” Grantaire grabs her elbow and starts steering her towards the other side of the room where Eponine appears to have made a pile consisting of every pillow in the apartment. “Make mine four fingers,” he adds over his shoulder to Azelma, who’s retrieving glasses from the cabinet.

“You could try not taking it out on your liver for once!” he hears her shoot back. Eponine sinks down into the pillow pile, pulling her knees up to her chest. She is in fact wearing shorts beneath the oversized shirt, thankfully. She’s also currently wearing the worried expression she reserves specially for moments like this, when Grantaire is skirting around the edges of bad news.

“When you say the universe, you mean --”

“I have just seen the single most beautiful human being on the planet,” Grantaire announces, flopping down next to her. When Eponine does nothing but scrunch her face up in confusion, he elaborates. “I was at work, and Courf was at a thing nearby with some of his friends and he asked me to bring coffee over after my shift, and now I’m wishing I had said no because then this wouldn’t be happening.”

“ _What_ wouldn’t be happening?”

“He’s beautiful!” Grantaire repeats helplessly. “He’s beautiful and he looks like a -- fucking thunderstorm when he’s mad, it’s incredible, and he cares about like, helping people and making a difference in the world and shit, which is why I’m so insanely fucked, do you get it?”

Eponine clearly doesn’t get it, but she’s trying. “So Courfeyrac has a hot friend and the problem is... what, you think he’s out of your league or something?”

“Nooo,” Grantaire sighs, rolling onto his back and rubbing a hand over his eyes. “He’s not _hot_ , it wouldn’t be a big deal if he was just _hot_. Hot people happen all the time, I've learned to cope. He’s unbelievably, unreasonably drop-dead gorgeous. And it’s not even that,” because it isn’t, Grantaire is all in favor of appreciating aesthetic beauty but looks have never been the most important thing for him. It’s the feeling he got when he saw Enjolras telling off those businessmen, like he was witnessing a force of nature at work and every molecule in his body was straining towards it, wanting to be swept up into the midst of the storm. “He’s _passionate_. And if the universe didn’t hate me he’d be passionate about something worthwhile like Breaking Bad, but because the universe does hate me he’s passionate about campaigning against capitalism and shit like that. You know, things that don’t go anywhere and don’t achieve anything in the long run.”

“Hold on, hold on.” Eponine leans forward, staring hard at Grantaire. “You’re crushing on a guy who spends his free time raging against the machine?”

“He runs a student activism group,” Grantaire confirms miserably. “It’s okay, you can laugh. I’ve been laughing at myself ever since it happened.”

To her credit, Eponine doesn’t laugh. She does keep staring at Grantaire like he’s been replaced by a not-quite-convincing clone. Thankfully this is when Azelma brings the screwdrivers -- Grantaire sits up and drains about a third of his glass in one go. He’s had enough of dwelling on this while sober for one day, thanks very much. Eponine sips at her own, then remarks, “You don’t think this is just a one-night stand kind of deal? I mean, no offense, but it’s not like you really even know this guy. Maybe if you fucked him you’d get it out of your system.”

Grantaire shrugs half-heartedly. “Yeah, maybe.” He doubts it. Enjolras had talked to him for all of thirty seconds and Grantaire still feels like he’s getting run over by a oil tanker every time he thinks about it. But the _why_ of it all is eluding him -- Enjolras is fiery and stunning and obviously stone-cold terrifying when he wants to be (which is a major turn-on for Grantaire, if he’s being honest), but evidence suggests he’s also an idealist, and that alone should be an instant red flag. Idealism is not something Grantaire has the stomach for. Life is hard enough without people parading around some grand vision of a brighter world to make reality look even shittier by comparison. Yet something about Enjolras’ optimism is intriguing rather than offputting. He’s not sure why, and he’s not about to try explaining something to Eponine when he can’t really explain it to himself. “Not like it matters though, since I’m probably never going to see him again.”

“Get his number from Courfeyrac.”

“The day I start relying on Courfeyrac to get laid is the day I stick my head in an oven.” Eponine snorts. “Seriously, he’d never let me live it down.”

“True.” Eponine unfolds her legs and stretches out so her feet are resting in Grantaire’s lap. She looks thoughtfully at him for a moment, then asks, “Is he really _that_ good-looking?”

“Would I have described him as ‘the most beautiful human being on the planet’ if he wasn’t?”

“Possibly? You do have a flair for dramatics.”

“Even _you_ would have looked twice at this guy, all right. He’s that pretty.”

Eponine squints suspiciously at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means he’s about the most effeminate dude imaginable. We’re talking like, above and beyond David Bowie levels of androgyny.”

“Oh fuck _off_. I am still into guys, you know.”

“Is that a fact? Name one guy you’ve been with ever since you gave up on what’s-his-face.” Marius’ name has been taboo ever since the day his Facebook status changed to In A Relationship. Grantaire feels bad for Eponine, he does, but at the same time she really should have taken some initiative instead of just lurking around his door every day over the past summer. Marius is not particularly good at taking hints.

Eponine scowls and takes a long, aggressive sip of her drink. Which doesn’t seem like something one should be able to do aggressively, but Eponine is a pro. “Who says I’ve given up on anything,” she mutters after she’s swallowed.

Grantaire bites back the snarky reply that wants to come out, because Eponine is his best friend after all, and she’s not making fun of his current romantic predicament. Instead he nudges her feet out of his lap so he can stand up. “He was there too, by the way,” he calls back as he heads for the vodka and orange juice still sitting on the counter where Azelma left them.

“Wait, seriously? I know he hates his boojie grandpa but I didn’t think he was up for smashing the whole system.”

“Yeah, well I think he mostly got roped into it by Courf and what’s-her-face.” Grantaire debates for a moment before deciding _fuck it_ and measuring another four fingers’ worth of vodka into his glass. He’s trying to pass out, not get buzzed. Meanwhile Eponine’s face has gone even more sour at the indirect mention of Cosette. “You know, at the risk of you telling me to go fuck myself, I think you might actually get along with her if you ever met her. She’s pretty cool.”

“Go fuck yourself.” Well, it’s not like he didn’t see that one coming. “You know I still haven’t forgiven you for getting them together in the first place.”

“OH my GOD, Ponine, please. Literally all I did was tell him who she was. Which he already knew, by the way, I can’t help it if he didn’t recognize her even after she sat in on half our classes last year.” Admittedly, none of them had paid Professor Fauchelevent’s daughter much attention, but it had barely been three months between their last class of the spring semester and the day when Marius happened to be coming into the bookstore as Cosette was going out. Grantaire thought he was joking at first when he came rushing over frantically asking if Grantaire knew the girl who had just left -- seriously, this is zero percent his fault.

“Whatever,” Eponine huffs. The girl does love to hold grudges. Grantaire retaliates by sitting on her legs when he returns to the makeshift pillow nest.

“C’mon, let’s toast. To being hopelessly infatuated with boys who have more good looks than sense.”

“That’s a terrible thing to toast to,” Eponine grumbles. “Aren’t you supposed to toast happy things?”

“Since when do we drink because we’re happy?”

“Fair enough.” Eponine clinks her glass against Grantaire’s own. “‘Hopelessly infatuated’?”

“What, you’re gonna deny it?”

“I was talking about you.”

“Ah.” Grantaire considers it. “I mean, yeah, granted, I don’t have much to go off of, but... I don’t know, I haven’t been able to get him out of my head since I met him. I don’t know what it is about him. It’s freaking me out.”

“I can see that.” Eponine smiles half-heartedly at him and ruffles his hair. “Just so you know, I sympathize, but if you start having a wet dream I will not feel guilty at all about leaving you to sleep on the floor by yourself.”

Grantaire has to laugh. “I wouldn’t expect you to.” He feels a surge of thankfulness for her just then, and knows that at this moment there’s nowhere he’d rather be than curled up with his best friend on her ratty apartment floor. It’s a nice feeling, and he savors it while it lasts. He shifts off of her legs when she starts to jiggle them, and she leans forward to rub feeling back into her calves.

“Now are we gonna watch this movie, or did you want to spend some more time moping?”

“Please,” Grantaire answers, gesturing towards the TV in the corner. Eponine hops up to go put the DVD in, also taking the opportunity to grab the pack of cigarettes sitting on top of the television. She tosses it behind her where it falls into the mess of pillows; Grantaire extracts it and pulls two cigarettes out. Newports aren’t his first choice but he’s not picky when it comes to free nicotine. He lights both at once, pulling the second out of his mouth to hand to Eponine when she plops back down next to him.

She takes a drag before belatedly realizing they don’t have an ashtray. “Dammit.”

“Don’t worry, I got this.” Grantaire tips his head back and chugs the rest of his screwdriver before offering her his now-empty glass. Eponine taps her ash into it, shaking her head incredulously.

“I hope you know me and the kids all have bets on when your liver is going to shut down completely. Gavroche says if it doesn’t happen before you hit thirty he’ll eat his hands.”

She’s trying to show she cares, Grantaire knows, but her comment lands right in that ugly little space in the back of his head where he’s constantly aware of the self-destructive cycle his life has become and how powerless he is to do anything other than keep feeding it. “Smart kid,” he says sardonically, the words coming out with more bite than he intended.

Instead of responding, Eponine snuggles closer into his side and slumps down enough to rest her chin on his shoulder. Grantaire leans his cheek against her dark hair, inhaling the faint scent of lilac from her shampoo buried beneath the layers of smoke. When she dips her head to press a quick kiss through the fabric of his sweater, he knows she’s apologizing. A moment later he switches his cigarette to his left hand so he can tuck the fingers of his right into her palm. He feels her squeeze them gently in return. Neither of them are the best at giving voice to their emotions, but this they know. This they can always fall back on.

They end up falling asleep before the movie’s done, but it’s not like they haven’t seen it before anyway. Grantaire nods off to the drone of the TV and the steady rhythm of Eponine’s breathing, and his last incoherent thoughts are of trying not to focus on the sparks of gold that still flash behind his closed eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

Grantaire is awoken two times next morning. The first is by the alarm on Eponine’s phone going off, which he’s tired enough to just roll over and ignore. The second time is by a knock on the door. By the time he disentangles himself enough from the various pillows and blankets to raise his head, Eponine has already answered it. It must have been a while since she got up because she’s dressed and her hair is freshly damp from the shower. From the way she’s got the door cracked barely open and her body planted in front of it, Grantaire guesses whoever’s here isn’t coming in. He hears whispering but it’s too low to make out any words. A second later, Eponine forcefully shuts the door, and the expression Grantaire catches sight of on her face is just shy of murderous.

He debates whether he’d be better off not knowing the answer to the question he’s about to ask, but if Eponine’s in some shit he wants to hear about it. “Who was that?”

Eponine only hesitates a moment before saying “Sorry babe, did I wake you up? I was trying to keep it down.” She’s pulling her boots on as she speaks, and Grantaire glimpses an envelope disappear inside her coat pocket.  “There’s pop-tarts and I think we’ve still got a couple eggs left in the fridge, help yourself. Do me a favor and wash any dishes you use, yeah? I don’t need mom getting on my case. I mean, we live in a shithole, why does she care if there’s dirty dishes in the sink or not.”

“Eponine,” Grantaire says firmly, sitting up all the way. “Stop deflecting and tell me what that was about.” Her fingers are already closed around the doorknob, and from the pursed-lip stare she’s giving him, he thinks for a second that she might just walk out anyway. But then she sighs and lets her hand drop, walking over to perch on the arm of the stripped-down couch.

“Just a job,” she mutters, tugging at a stray thread on her sleeve. Her eyes meet his reluctantly.

Grantaire resists his immediate impulse to chuck the closest pillow at her. “Is it dangerous?”

“Well it’s illegal, so.” Eponine yanks the thread until it snaps off, then flicks it carelessly to the floor. She sighs again. “I told Montparnasse I’d run some cash over to the pawn shop for him -- didn’t ask what it was for, didn’t need to know, all that mattered was the $100 I was gonna get. And now he shows up to tell me I also need to get a package there and drop it off at his place. I told him from the start, money’s one thing, but I’m not getting near any stolen shit. I _told_ him that and now he pulls this bullshit.”

“You’re sure it’s stolen?” That earns him a withering look. “All right, so we’ll assume the worst. You’re still gonna do it?”

“Groceries aren’t gonna pay for themselves.” Eponine sighs again. Her shoulders droop slightly, and for a moment she actually looks like the eighteen-year-old kid she is. But the moment’s gone just as fast. “I made the asshole promise to bump my cut up to $150, so at least there’s that.”

Grantaire scoots over until he’s at the foot of the couch, close enough to reach out and clasp Eponine’s ankle in what he hopes is a reassuring way. “Look, I’m not your guidance counselor or whatever, I’m not here to judge you or tell you you’re fucking up your life. Do what you have to do, I just want to make sure you’re staying safe. Purely for selfish reasons, of course, because I’m pretty sure I’d actually die if anything bad happened to you.”

Eponine rolls her eyes fondly. “Well for your sake I’ll try not to get picked up by the cops. But if I do, I need you to swear on everything sacred that you’ll strangle Montparnasse in his sleep for me.”

“What are friends for?” Grantaire agrees. Eponine smiles, and it almost reaches her eyes. She leans over to plant a quick kiss on the top of Grantaire’s head before she’s hopping off the couch and heading for the door.

“If you leave before Azelma wakes up, make sure you lock up. Gavroche should have a key with him. Or he’ll just pick the lock, either way he’s fine.”

“Gavroche never came home last night?” Eponine pauses with her hand on the knob again and shrugs. “I swear to god that kid spends more nights out of this apartment than he does in it. He’s probably joined a gang by now.”

“Oh, just cause he’s Latino, he’s got to be in a gang, right?” Eponine shoots back teasingly. Grantaire gasps and slaps a hand to his chest in mock astonishment.

“You guys are _Latino_? Wow, somebody better let your mother know, she’s gonna shit a brick.” Eponine’s only response is a stifled snort of laughter. Mrs. Thenardier, a long-suffering victim of internalized prejudices, had married a white man and done her best to convince her children that their being light-skinned enough to pass as white effectively cancelled out any other ethnic heritage. Grantaire supposed that the kids realized it was bullshit when they realized the same was true for every other word out of their parents’ mouths. “Seriously though, I know the home environment isn’t much better, but if he keeps running the streets he’s gonna turn into Montparnasse.”

The glare he receives after that comment could have curdled milk. “I will drink bleach before I let my brother turn into Montparnasse,” Eponine says in a deadpan voice, and with that definitive statement she’s out of the door. Grantaire snickers to himself and collapses back into the pillow nest, digging his phone out of his pocket to check the time. 9:17. Earlier than he would have liked to be up, but once he’s fully awake it’s almost impossible for him to fall asleep again, so he’ll just have to deal with it. He’s not sure where the various blankets and pillows belong, but he at least returns the couch pillows to their proper place before leaving the rest in a slightly tidier heap for one of the girls to deal with.

There are indeed eggs in the fridge, but not much else. Grantaire elects to leave the contents of the kitchen alone, considering Eponine’s comment about paying for groceries most likely translates to her dad having sold their food stamps again. Plus the familiar dull ache in his temples signals that a large starchy breakfast is clearly in order right now. He pulls his phone out again to send a courtesy text to the few people whose company he could actually enjoy at this time of the morning.

_Anyone up for a waffle house run? slightly hungover but not to the point where full sentences/basic human functions are impossible_

He’s rinsing out his and Eponine’s glasses from last night when his phone buzzes with a reply that turns out to be from Bahorel -- figures they’d be the only one up before 10 on a Saturday. Grantaire wipes the glasses and his hands dry before looking at the text.

_I am ALWAYS up for waffle house but I’m in the middle of something, gimme an hour? I’ll drive and pay that’s totally worth the wait_

_Oooooh idk friend anything could happen in an hour. i could starve to death. on the other hand i have missed your motorcycle_

_Taking that as a yes. you live sort of near the old movie theater right? might need help with directions_

“...You’re _shitting_ me,” Grantaire announces to the empty room after reading the text three times to confirm it. He is the butt of some gigantic cosmic joke right now, he has to be.

_This “something” you’re in the middle of wouldn’t happen to be bringing about the downfall of local real estate would it?_

_Wtf bro have you been a mind reader all this time and never told me cause that’s not cool_

_Heard about it from courfeyrac. didn’t know you were in on it though._ Grantaire chews the inside of his cheek for a long moment before typing out the rest of the message and hitting send. _i’ll just meet you at the theater it’ll be faster_

He’s definitely not having an internal celebration over the excuse to see Enjolras again. That would just be creepy.

*

There’s significantly less people outside the theater the next morning -- not everyone was willing to make the overnight commitment, apparently. Those who did stay don’t seem to have been inconvenienced by last night’s weather much. Various sleeping bags are piled together beneath the shelter of the theater marquee and someone even set up a couple of huge beach umbrellas. Grantaire tells himself he’s not _intentionally_ looking for Enjolras first, it’s just that his luminescent hair makes him impossible not to notice. At the moment Enjolras is pacing slightly, absorbed in a phone conversation. Courfeyrac and his friend with the glasses are talking to someone who Grantaire vaguely recognizes as the theater owner, and the rest of the remaining protesters are sitting in a circle around a frankly massive box of donuts that must be breakfast for everyone.

Grantaire coasts up to a conveniently placed street sign, dismounts and locks his bicycle to it. He wasn’t exactly planning on waltzing right into the middle of things like he belongs here, but Cosette catches sight of him and waves him over. “Want a donut?” she offers, gesturing towards the box.

“I’m good, thanks,” Grantaire replies, leaning back against the wall rather than take a seat in the circle. “Guess I should congratulate all of you for not dying of pneumonia overnight.”

Inexplicably, that comment sparks a short ripple of laughter among the group. The bald guy whose name Grantaire never bothered to get pulls a tiny bottle from his jacket pocket and says very seriously, “That’s actually cause we have a secret weapon. Perks of hanging out with med students.”

“Pre-med,” his neighbor with the freckles corrects him. “Not like it takes a pre-med student to tell you that nasal spray helps prevent respiratory inflammation.”

“Yeah, but only you would be the one worrying about _respiratory inflammation_ in the middle of a protest,” Bald Dude says affectionately.

Freckles shrugs as if leaving the house with nasal spray is common sense. His eyes flick to Grantaire, and he stares for a second before gasping a little. “Whoah, hang on, I knew I recognized you!” he exclaims loudly, actually pointing at Grantaire as he does. “You were the guy at that house party last year who had to get his stomach pumped, right?”

“Oh god,” Grantaire half groans, half laughs, thumping his head lightly on the wall behind him. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Enjolras turn towards the outburst. “Yep, that’s my claim to fame.” The end of last semester was not a stellar time for him -- having already decided he was dropping out, his last few weeks consisted of blowing off any and all schoolwork and attempting to make up for the three years of hardcore drinking he was now going to miss out on. He doesn’t remember much from that party, but he’s heard it was epic. “Always an ego boost to be recognized by the little people, thanks for that.”

The irony of the “little people” comment doesn’t seem to be lost on Freckles, if his giggling is anything to go by. The laughter lights his face up, and Grantaire finds himself grinning reflexively. He’s distracted enough that he doesn’t hear footsteps approaching, but he does hear when Enjolras says, “So, you’re back. I guess the optimism wasn’t that unbearable after all?”

Of course while everyone else is pale or bleary-eyed or has atrocious bedhead, Enjolras persists in looking like he just stepped out of a skin care commercial. He practically glows in the morning sun. It should really be illegal for someone to be so attractive after spending the whole night on a sidewalk. Grantaire realizes belatedly that Enjolras is waiting for a response. He ducks his head a little and murmurs, “Well... slightly less unbearable in a certain light, maybe. But I’m actually just meeting up with a friend here so me and my negative vibes will be out of your perfect hair soon.”

Enjolras is just _staring_ at him. It’s a little unnerving. Grantaire find himself rethinking his decision to come here. Sure, he’d jumped at the chance to see Enjolras again, but he hadn’t considered that the intensity he’d seen in the other boy yesterday would now be focused on him. That combined with the four or five inches of height Enjolras has over him is making him fidgety. He pulls out a cigarette and lights it, not so much because he needs one but more to use the secondhand smoke as an excuse to shift away downwind from the group. He doesn’t expect it when Enjolras follows him.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Well if it’s a math problem, you’re shit outta luck, I’ve always been more of a humanities kind of guy.” It’s a knee-jerk wisecrack response, and Grantaire feels like a bit of an ass for it when he sees Enjolras’ thrown-off-track expression. “Sorry, ignore me. My brain to mouth filter doesn’t work so great on days ending in Y. Um. What was the question?”

For a second it looks like Enjolras is reconsidering this conversation, but he presses onward. “You seem very convinced all this is a waste of time.”

Grantaire shrugs. “Yeah, well. Don’t take it personally. I think a lot of things are a waste of time. Organized religion, the war on drugs, sex ed classes...”

“Why?” Enjolras demands. “We’re preventing a small business owner from having his livelihood taken away unfairly. What do you find so objectionable about that?”

“I don’t find it objectionable, I’m all for the concept. It’s just not feasible.”

“You’re wrong.” The retort is immediate and confident. “Given pressure and community attention, the developers will back down. They know Mr. Rosier is in the right, and they’ve seen that we won’t let them get away with this. You’d see it too, if you weren’t so busy being narrow-minded. We’re making a difference here.”

The thing is, Grantaire knows what he’s about to say will just further piss Enjolras off. And it’s not as if he wants to be spiteful -- truthfully, he has to admire the conviction in Enjolras’ voice, envious as he’s always been of people who can fully dedicate themselves to something. But he’s a cynic with a mouth as big as his self-control is nonexistent, and being called narrow-minded really rubbed him the wrong way.

“Okay, so you put on a big show and the developers back off. Well done! Except it doesn’t solve anything, not long-term. This place was going bankrupt before and that’s still gonna happen whether in a week from now or a month. The corporate vultures know it, so they figured they’d swoop in and pick it off early. There’s a reason this is the only single-screen movie theater in the city, probably the only one left in the state, it’s cause it’s not a sustainable business model anymore. It’s trying to compete with multiplexes that sell ten times the tickets and can have ten opening weekends at once. Modern consumerism doesn’t give a shit about the good old days once they stop turning a profit. So unless you’re planning to go out tomorrow and completely revamp our economy, then all you’re really doing here is putting a band-aid on cancer. Postponing the inevitable. Sorry to say.”

Enjolras’ ears have turned pink. Grantaire thinks it would be cute if it wasn’t a likely sign that the other boy is currently fuming at him. Ah well. Self-sabotage has always been his style.

“It just so happens that --”

Whatever Enjolras had been about to counter with is drowned out by a booming voice shouting, “YO! Capital R!” Before Grantaire can look behind him there’s a bulky pair of arms wrapping around his middle and hefting him up into a vicious hug. He doesn’t need to see a face to know who they belong to, though.

“Easy on the ribs, please, I’m extremely delicate.”

“Sorry, are we talking about the same guy who willingly jumped off my balcony?” Bahorel sets him back down, ruffling his hair for good measure.

“That was for a bet, it doesn’t count.”

Bahorel’s tongue pokes out from between their teeth as they snicker. “Whatever, dude. You’re about as delicate as a cockroach. Awe-inspiring creatures that they are. I take it you two have met, then?” they add, glancing over to Enjolras, who’s looking less pink but still just as ruffled.

“We met yesterday,” he says shortly. “I didn’t realize you knew each other.”

“Sparring slash drinking buddies,” Bahorel explains. “Though lately it’s been less sparring and more drinking -- and what’s up with that, by the way?” they add to Grantaire, who shrugs in what he hopes is a vaguely apologetic way.

“Kind of hard to use the campus gym when I’m not actually a student anymore.”

“Excuses, excuses.” Bahorel waves a dismissive hand, producing a round of jingling as their various silver bracelets knock against each other. “I wasn’t technically a student last year and I still lived in the dorms the whole time, you can figure something out.” Something draws their attention away from the conversation then, and Grantaire looks up to see a woman crossing the street remarkably quickly for someone in heels that tall. “Yo, jefe, this is her.”

Enjolras extends his hand as the woman reaches them. “Miss Faurot? Nice to meet you officially. I’m Enjolras.”

Faurot tucks the thick manila folder she’s carrying under her arm as she shakes Enjolras’ hand, keeping a firm grip on it for a moment as she looks him over. “So you’re the pain in my ass who thinks application deadlines don’t apply to him, huh?” she comments wryly.

“I’m one of them,” Enjolras replies, not missing a beat. He raises his voice and calls over his shoulder. “Combeferre!”

Combeferre turns out to be the late arrival from yesterday. At Enjolras’ summons, he and Rosier walk over to join them. Courfeyrac practically bounces along on their heels. Grantaire notices that he’s not the only one excited -- Faurot’s appearance seems to have sparked something among the protesters, who have all gotten to their feet and are watching on expectantly.

Faurot, meanwhile, is sifting through the folder in her hands, taking out several official looking documents. “I’m sure you’ll all be overjoyed to hear everything’s in order, I just need to get Mr. Rosier’s signature on a few things here…” She produces a pen and starts explaining what needs to be signed. Grantaire is definitely missing something. He plucks at Bahorel’s sleeve, drawing them slightly away from the proceedings, and asks in an undertone, “What’s going on?”

“You’ll see,” is all Bahorel offers in response, grinning broadly.

“Oh, cool, thanks for clearing that up,” Grantaire mutters. His gaze wanders back to Enjolras, whose face is shining with something close to pride as Rosier scribbles away. Faurot pulls a stamp from her handbag and, after marking the last document with it, shakes Rosier’s hand and congratulates him -- for what, Grantaire still isn’t sure, but he has a feeling he’s about to find out. Enjolras has the business card he received yesterday in his hand and is dialing the number. Grantaire gets the distinct impression that everyone other than him is holding their breath.

“It’s going to voicemail,” Enjolras says for the crowd’s benefit. A second later, he begins speaking into the phone. “This message is for the parties interested in obtaining ownership of the Zephyr movie theater on Greenmount Street. I just wanted to inform you that as of today, seeing as it is the only remaining single-screen movie theater in the state, the Zephyr is registered as a state historic landmark and as such is subject to strict guidelines that prevent any demolition or otherwise unnecessarily harmful renovations to the property. You’re welcome to contact the state preservation bureau regarding any further inquiries on this matter. Best of luck in your future business ventures.” This last remark is so thick with false sincerity Grantaire can practically taste it. Enjolras hangs up the phone to an eruption of cheers and applause.

Grantaire allows himself to be the tiniest bit impressed. He turns to Bahorel and says, “If you can’t beat ‘em, fuck ‘em, right?”

“There’s always a loophole.” Bahorel winks at him.

“American capitalism defeated by American conservatism,” Grantaire observes. “I gotta say, the irony alone was worth getting out of bed for.” Combeferre is going down the line unlocking people’s handcuffs, and they all flock to Rosier to offer congratulations. Grantaire keeps his eyes trained on Enjolras, still visible in the throng thanks to his height and glowing hair. “Isn’t the theater still broke though?”

Bahorel just laughs, sounding genuinely amused. “The eternal skeptic, bless your heart. From what I understand Rosier’s planning to switch up his target audience -- start showing indie flicks, foreign films, you know, stuff that big theaters don’t do. Avoid the competition, right?” They clap Grantaire on the back before heading over to join in on the celebrating.

Grantaire is even more impressed. And a little embarrassed when he recalls his earlier debate with Enjolras and realizes the kid did, in fact, have a solid plan all along. At that moment Enjolras, still surrounded by the festivity, happens to look his way. They lock eyes and Grantaire gives him a smile and nod of acknowledgement.

Enjolras blinks, then his own lips curve into a tentative smile as well. It makes his face even more unbearably charming, and Grantaire feels something warm and impetuous bloom behind his ribcage. What the hell, maybe he should take Eponine’s advice and just go for it. He’s certainly acted on worse impulses in the past. Maybe --

The moment of eye contact is broken when Combeferre appears at Enjolras’ side and murmurs something into his ear. Enjolras’ face lights up and he turns towards the other boy. It’s too far away to distinguish his reply, but Grantaire can see very clearly when he reaches out to take Combeferre’s hand in his own, pale fingers overlapping with tawny ones in a gorgeous contrast. Combeferre’s face is inexpressibly tender as he leans in to press a kiss to Enjolras’ forehead.

The warm entity in Grantaire’s chest turns leaden and plummets downward at record speed, landing in his stomach with a sour splash. He can feel it doggie-paddling around in his gastric juices, laughing vigorously at him thinking he had a shot at something nice for once. Naturally.

“Okay!” Bahorel is suddenly next to him again. “Victory breakfast, my treat. Let’s get some carbs into you.”

“Sounds good,” Grantaire replies distantly. He forces himself to look away from the display of affection and follows Bahorel to their motorcycle, self-pity and self-ridicule washing over him in alternating waves. That’s what he gets for hoping. _Story of my fucking life._

*

Two cups of pitch-black coffee and one plate of hash browns and eggs later, Grantaire’s hangover is fading into the distance. No such luck with his heartbreak. He’d be angry at himself for getting this messed up over someone he only met yesterday if he wasn’t busy being angry at Enjolras for… existing, basically. How dare he be so irresistible and unavailable.

The reasonable thing to do in this situation would be to cut one’s losses and move on, but Grantaire’s not a reasonable guy. “So how’d you get mixed up with this club anyway?” he asks Bahorel, who’s in the middle of dumping what looks like the entire bottle of hot sauce on their second serving of eggs. “Seems like the babysitting would be a turn off for you.”

“I know, right?” Bahorel laughs. “They’re almost all underclassmen, it’s weird. And also totally unfair. I mean, where were all the cool freshmen when I was their age?” They scoop up a forkful of eggs and practically inhale it -- Grantaire has no idea where they’re putting it all. “But to answer your question, I saw Enjolras putting some fliers up, ‘meaningful community outreach,’ ‘help create a more justice-oriented campus,’ that kind of thing. And I’m sure I don’t have to tell you how I feel about white kids throwing the word ‘justice’ around, so I figured I’d see what was up, you know, smack some perspective into them if need be. Turns out they’re legit though.”

“Also not all white.”

“Yeah, that definitely helps. Don’t get me wrong, some of them still need a reminder every now and again. Like this one kid --” Bahorel tosses their braid over one shoulder and hunches forward, hands becoming animated as they always do when they’re telling a story. “First meeting I go to we start talking, turns out he lives like, four hours away from me back home. Small world. So he asks if I grew up on the reservation, I say no, but we go there to visit family a lot. And he says…” Bahorel assumes a faux-solemn attitude in imitation. “‘Well, that must be tough for you, right? With all the homophobia?’ I shit you not! I just looked him dead in the face and said ‘Actually it’s not, since the Navajo people have recognized multiple genders for centuries and any heteronormativity in the community today is thanks to your ancestors beating it into us.” They pause to get their laughter out. “I swear he blushed redder than a fucking stoplight, it was incredible.”

The kid got off easy, Grantaire thinks. He’s seen Bahorel put an elbow through a dude’s face because he wouldn’t take off his Redskins hat. Granted, his friend was drunk at the time, but still. “So could he not look you in the eye after that?”

“Nah, he apologized. A real apology, not that ‘I’m sorry you were offended’ bullshit. We’re good now. I don’t know if you met him or not -- Jehan? Skinny little redhead, can’t match patterns to save his life?”

“Mm, vaguely. We didn’t really talk.”

Bahorel shakes their head fondly. “You’d like him, he’s cool as shit. They’re all cool, honestly. It’s really refreshing to see so many men who aren’t total scumbags in the same room together.”

“You trying to recruit me?” Grantaire asks jokingly.

“Hey, you’re the one who asked about it.”

“True.” Grantaire stretches his arms above his head before slumping back in his booth. The material covering the seat squeaks awkwardly beneath his weight. “I dunno, Courfeyrac joined and he couldn’t shut up about it. I just think it’s weird that I never heard you say anything.”

“Yeah well, Courfeyrac doesn’t do anything halfway, does he? Not that I do, but I know better than to bring this stuff up around you, it just turns into another one of your sermons on nihilism and the flaws inherent in politics as an institution and blah blah blah.”

Grantaire spreads his hands in a helpless gesture. “What can I say, I’m an evangelist.” He drains the rest of his coffee before folding his arms on the table and resting his chin on top of them. “So what happens at these meetings? You all sit around sewing communist flags and voting on which of Forbes 400 you should target for assassination?”

“It’s a thought.” Bahorel looks down at him, dark-rimmed eyes narrowed a little suspiciously. “Why the sudden interest?”

_Because your club president is too attractive for his own good and I enjoy torturing myself._ Grantaire tips his head to the side and hopes he looks indifferent. “Astonishingly, I am capable of caring about my friends’ lives even when I question how they spend their free time.” When Bahorel’s expression doesn’t change, he adds, “Plus it’s kind of interesting that this club even exists in the first place -- I mean sure, I was only in school for a year, but it seemed to me that the student body was more concerned with their sports teams or test scores or internships than with any kind of community outreach. Beyond what they could use for their grad school apps, of course. So yeah, call me curious. Whatever.”

“Well, it’s definitely not all serious business,” Bahorel admits. “Half the time we just sit around bullshitting about, like, police brutality or media representation or whatever other topic gets randomly brought up. Last week a girl said something about promoting veganism and Enjolras went OFF on her about how vegan lifestyles are a privilege and how classist it is to shame people who don’t have access to it and ‘sure you care about animals but how much do you care about the migrant workers picking your tomatoes for below minimum wage?’ I don’t think she’s coming back next week.” Grantaire takes a moment to revel in the image of Enjolras on a tirade, maybe with his hair loose and tumbling around his shoulders as his eyes shine with the belief behind his words.

It’s when he starts wondering which angle the light would be striking Enjolras’ face at that Grantaire realizes he’s envisioning the scene the same way he would if he were planning on painting it. That shakes him for a second. He hasn’t thought about art since he dropped out, hasn’t even doodled anything more in-depth than stick figures. How is Enjolras this far under his skin in less than 24 hours?

There are a dozen reasons why Grantaire shouldn’t ask what he wants to ask. _You’re wasting your time. He has a boyfriend. You’re either apathetic about or in complete disagreement with everything he stands for. He’s just going to end up hating you like always. You do this every time, you find something that you want and you ruin it and then you backslide again, haven’t you learned yet? Stop doing this to yourself, moron. He has a boyfriend. He. Has. A. Boyfriend._

Grantaire slowly lifts his head and looks straight at Bahorel. “So when’s the next meeting?”

*

Meetings of the Friends of the ABC (which is what the club turns out to be called, and Grantaire can’t _not_ admire that, sucker that he is for bad French puns) are Wednesday nights at 9, which means Grantaire has just enough time to get there on the bus after his shift ends. He planned accordingly before leaving his apartment earlier -- there’s a flask of whiskey resting reassuringly in his coat pocket, and he breaks it out during the bus ride in an effort to distract himself from his mounting anxiety. It earns him a couple of side-eyes from his fellow passengers, but Grantaire gave up on any semblance of dignity a long time ago. Besides, they use public transportation, they’ve definitely seen worse.

He gets off at the campus stop, cool night air hitting him in the face when the doors open. The familiar surroundings instantly bring back jumbled memories from his squandered freshman year. He pushes them away just as quickly -- he’s feeling lousy enough already, thanks very much. For a second he considers just turning around and going home, but the next bus won’t be for an hour, and he’s come this far already. Might as well embrace his total loss of control over his life.

According to Bahorel, the club meets in the student center lounge. Grantaire makes his way across campus, blood steadily rushing to his head in a way that has only partly to do with the alcohol in his system. When he reaches the building, he takes a last fortifying swig and tucks the flask away for now. The door handle looms in front of him tauntingly, and he turns it quickly before he can spend the next five minutes standing there awkwardly making up his mind.

The room isn’t very crowded. There’s maybe fifteen people scattered amongst the various chairs and sofas. Grantaire recognizes most of the faces from the protest -- no sign of Enjolras, although there’s still a few minutes to go until 9:00. A clipboard with a sign-up sheet for new members is sitting on a little table right next to the entrance. Grantaire impulsively grabs the pen and scrawls an ‘R’ for his name, ignoring the spaces asking for a contact email or phone number, then scans the room for a place to sit. Bahorel is here, but they’re sprawled out on the floor right at the front, and Grantaire needs to be somewhere less conspicuous.  He notices the freckle-faced kid with the infectious laugh at a table in the back with his friend to whom he’s apparently joined at the hip. There’s an empty stool next to them. It seems like as good a spot as any.

“Mind if I join you?”

“Sure!” Freckles replies easily. “Assuming you don’t mind listening to this one’s lame jokes.” He punctuates the sentence with a head jerk towards his friend, who gasps.

“My jokes are so not lame. Mildly stiff-legged at most.” Grantaire chuckles at that as he slides onto the unoccupied stool. “I don’t think we were ever introduced, by the way,” the other guy continues. “I’m Bossuet, this is Joly.”

“Well, like you two, most people know me as That One Guy From That One Party. But I also go by Grantaire.”

“Most people know me as That One Guy Who Locks Himself Out Of His Dorm Half-Naked All The Time,” Bossuet says. “It’s kind of grown on me.”

Joly leans forward, propping his chin up with a hand. “So did Courfeyrac recruit you? We think he’s trying to break 20 before the end of the month. I feel like someone should tell him there’s no gold medal up for grabs.”

“He’d just make himself one anyway,” Grantaire points out. “And Courfeyrac had nothing to do with my being here. I’m just --” _Completely gone over your president and don’t have the decency to languish in private._ “-- looking for something to do. Besides, I miss college so terribly, I had to come back. So many great memories. Sleeping through every other class, not having your own bathroom, the endless quest for cafeteria food that doesn’t taste like reheated cardboard. Not to mention the honor of having professors lecture at you day after day about topics that you definitely won’t forget as soon as you’ve taken the midterm. If not earlier. You know, I can’t believe they don’t charge us more?”

Grantaire knows he’s starting to ramble, knows that his tipsiness manifests in these annoying streams of consciousness that he can’t always reign in before people get sick of hearing his voice. But Joly is still leaning in attentively, and a cheeky grin has spread across Bossuet’s face. “Well you must have had a terribly compelling reason to leave, then,” Bossuet prompts when Grantaire stops for breath. “Considering the deep heartbreak you’ve obviously suffered.”

“Compelling but misguided,” Grantaire sighs. “See, most people these days go to school for four years, get a degree in whatever, and then end up working hourly behind a counter somewhere because the job market’s too screwed for anyone to actually find work in their field. So I figured if I cut out the middle and skipped to the part where I get an hourly job and a crap apartment I’d be a step ahead. Turns out in this case being a step ahead just makes the shiny new adulthood feeling wear off that much faster, and then where are you? Sitting on your futon eating ramen and drinking cheap booze that you had to buy yourself instead of sitting in your dorm eating ramen and drinking cheap booze that you stole from the last party you went to.”

“Hey, at least you’ve got the futon,” Bossuet says cheerfully. “I’m pretty sure I’ll still be sleeping on this guy’s couch when I’m 40.”

“Plus you won’t have to sell a kidney to pay for your student loans,” Joly chimes in. “I don’t even want to think about what med school’s gonna end up costing me.”

“Yeah but when you’re a doctor you’ll make bank and pay those off easy,” Bossuet says. “Meanwhile I’ll be sleeping on your couch.”

Joly covers Bossuet’s hand with his own where it’s resting on the table. “I promise to water you three times a day,” he says seriously, but his eyes are sparkling. Their faces break into simultaneous smiles. Grantaire _likes_ these guys.

“Anyway, the booze might be harder to come by, but at least you earned it,” Bossuet says, turning back to Grantaire. “That’s got to count for something, right?”

“Oh sure,” Grantaire says. “I’m the American Dream and all that implies.” He’s ready to go on, but at that moment the door opens and the now-familiar sight of golden hair wipes everything else from Grantaire’s mind.

Enjolras is flanked by Combeferre and Courfeyrac, the latter of whom immediately sails to the front of the room. “Citizens! Thank you one and all for coming!” Courfeyrac’s arms are outstretched in a way that looks partly like a welcome and partly just an excuse to take up more space. Grantaire is looking past him to where Enjolras is standing, arms folded and lips pursed in an almost-smile. When Combeferre taps him on the shoulder, Enjolras pulls a marker from his back pocket and gives it to him without turning his head.

_Fuck this_ , Grantaire thinks, and slips his flask back out to take a liberal swig. Across the table, Joly cocks his head. “Are we celebrating?” he asks.

Grantaire doesn’t miss the deliberate lightness in Joly’s voice, can hear the deeper question lying unspoken between them. “It’s medicinal,” he replies, eyes fixed on the curve of Enjolras’ mouth. They’ve entered awkward territory, and he braces himself for the mood to shift, but Joly just ‘hmm’s offhandedly and the moment passes.

Courfeyrac is in the middle of some characteristic opening remarks. “So it’s safe to say our first group venture into public service was a success. To everyone who was at the demonstration last weekend, thanks again for fighting the good fight. To anyone who wasn’t, you’re wack as hell but there will be plenty of chances to redeem yourselves. Um, what else, what else… obligatory reminder that we have a sign-up sheet if you want to be updated about club developments, it’s right there next to the door. Aaand that does it for me, if there’s anything I’ve forgotten I’m sure I’ll be appropriately chastised later, but for now it is my _supreme_ pleasure to bring you the man you’ve been waiting for, the one, the only, oh captain our captain, Enjolras!”

Some scattered applause follows the introduction, which Courfeyrac initiates and which Enjolras waves off impatiently as he steps forward. “Thank you for the opener, Courfeyrac,” he says. His eyes sweep across the room and Grantaire can’t suppress a shiver that he follows with another swallow of whiskey. The buzz is kicking in, brightening the lights and blurring his thoughts.

“I know this is the first meeting for some of you,” Enjolras continues, “so I want to apologize for breaking from the standard format we’ve set up. Normally we would start off with group discussion of issues to address either on campus or in the surrounding communities, but we’re skipping that step tonight. As most of you are aware, there was an unwarranted police shooting last weekend just up the road from campus. I reached out to all our active members after hearing the news, and we agreed to spend the meeting strategizing the most effective way to respond to the incident.” He turns toward the whiteboard at the head of the room, where Combeferre has been compiling a list of bullet points.

“Here’s what we know,” Combeferre takes over, elaborating on the outlined points. “On Saturday night at around 11pm, police received a call about a home invasion in the Southgate neighborhood. The caller specified the burglar was a black man but gave no other description. The burglar fled the scene when the the officers arrived and a foot pursuit began. Officer Cloutier, on entering an alley, saw a black youth and shot him in the neck. The victim turned out to be Antoine Marineau, an eighteen-year-old resident who was on his way home from work. He died at the scene.” Combeferre’s voice is steady and composed. He sounds like the doctor you would want to have if your kid was in the hospital with a brain tumor. It makes it that much harder for Grantaire to hate him.

“The police commissioner is maintaining that Cloutier was within the bounds of duty,” Enjolras says. “The official statement is that Cloutier identified himself as police, asked Marineau to show his hands, and fired when Marineau failed to comply. I’m sure I’m not the only one here who finds it hard to believe that version of events. Marineau had no criminal record and no reason to defy orders. His parents have stated that he had experienced being pulled over by police in the past and had cooperated fully, so he clearly knew the appropriate way to respond. It seems far more likely that Cloutier saw a black face and didn’t think twice. What we have here is institutional racism alive and well -- the system throwing out justice in favor of protecting one of its own.”

Enjolras’ eyes have turned steely and his words carry a harsh bite. Grantaire wonders if he gets this worked up over every unjustifiable police shooting, and then wonders how exhausting that must be. “It’s our job to raise our voices and demand that Officer Cloutier be held accountable for his actions,” Enjolras finishes. “We’re here tonight to determine the best way to accomplish that.”

“Held accountable how?” someone on the side of the room asks. “What’s the goal here?”

Bahorel answers before Enjolras has a chance to. “Fire his ass!”

“At the least he should have his weapon privileges revoked,” Combeferre adds. “The department won’t want to fire him outright, but they’ll probably be more open to taking him out of the field and putting him in office.”

“Fuck compromising,” Bahorel argues. “We’re talking about someone who killed an innocent kid. Transferring him in-office is just a slap on the wrist. It’s not enough.”

“Why not?” Courfeyrac counters from his recently-assumed seat on the arm of the sofa. “If it puts him in a position where he can’t hurt anybody else, isn’t that enough? It’s not like firing him is going to bring Marineau back to life.”

Bossuet leans forward and calls out, “What about also advocating for increased firearms protocol training for active officers? I’m just thinking if we have a bigger picture goal to aim for we’ll be taken more seriously rather than looking like we’re just on a vendetta against one specific cop.”

“That’s a good point.” Enjolras motions to Combeferre, who adds it to the board. “Department-wide reform would be ideal, of course, but it does hinge on the police budget so we’d have to look into that before proceeding with anything. Having Cloutier transferred or relieved would be a much more immediate action, and it would send a louder message as well. Does anyone have thoughts on what methods we should use?”

Grantaire’s head is spinning as he listens to the discussion carry on around him. He’s not sure what’s overwhelming him more -- Enjolras’ aura or the futility of a handful of college kids trying to dismantle institutionalized racism from their dorms.

“The student body is our biggest resource,” Courfeyrac is saying. “We should concentrate on generating as much output from the campus as possible -- signatures, letters, phone calls, whatever. The more numbers we have the harder we’ll be to dismiss.”

Grantaire snorts. _Good luck with that._

He realizes something’s wrong after a few seconds of silence. Plus everyone in the room is now staring at him with varying degrees of astonishment. “Shit, did I say that out loud?”

“Yeah. You did,” Bossuet confirms. Grantaire starts to laugh quietly -- he can’t help it. The situation is too ridiculous, and if he doesn’t laugh he might actually shrivel up and die from the daggers Enjolras is currently glaring at him. He’s thinking that this has got to be one of his top five moments on his mental list of Times Grantaire Has Made An Ass Of Himself In Front Of People He Likes, but what happens next catapults it to the number one spot.

Enjolras very deliberately crosses his arms, straightens up to his full height, and stares Grantaire down. “Did you have something to contribute, Grantaire?” His voice sounds like a bear trap waiting to snap shut, and Grantaire is trying to ignore the part of himself that wants to step into the jaws just to see how bad the damage would be.

“Nothing you want to hear, I’m sure,” he replies. “Forget I said anything.” He takes another pull from his flask, because why the hell not, and doesn’t miss the way Enjolras’ whole face tightens when he does.

“Please. I insist.”

“Oh well, if you _insist_.” Grantaire’s too far gone now, and given how abundantly clear it is that he and Enjolras are never going to speak again after tonight, he might as well go out with a bang. “I can tell you right now, you’re not gonna get the student population on board with this. They don’t care.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I also don’t _know_ that Vladimir Putin isn’t going to wake up tomorrow and decide that gay people actually shouldn’t be whipped in the streets, but I can make a pretty fucking educated guess.”

“You’re really cynical enough that you think this entire student body doesn’t care about an innocent young man being gunned down by the people who are supposed to be protecting him?”

“I’m realistic enough to accept that they only care in an abstract sense, like the same way they care about kids dying of AIDS in Lesotho, which is about as abstract as it gets since I doubt most people at this school even know that Lesotho is a country.”

He didn’t think Enjolras’ glare could have any more force behind it, but he was wrong. “Did you know last year one of the cafeteria workers here was fired after it was discovered he was a former gang member?” Enjolras challenges. “Within 48 hours the students had over a thousand signatures on a petition condemning the administration for racism and calling for him to be rehired. Which he was.”

“Yeah, I remember,” Grantaire replies. “I was here. Probably signed it myself.”

“And you still claim the student body doesn’t care enough about issues like this one to make any difference?”

“Two things.” Grantaire holds up two fingers. “One, I know the guy you’re talking about. His name’s Lanny, and half the signatures on that petition were people who were getting their weed from him, or had a friend who was getting their weed from him. Two, signing a petition takes next to zero effort. This is the age of the Internet after all. People don’t mind taking a few seconds to slap their name on something. But one petition only goes so far, and they’re not gonna spend the time and energy to write a letter, much less make a phone call, both of which you would need a lot of to make this work.”

“I’m sure it’s easier for you to project your own lack of motivation onto others,” Enjolras says coldly.

“And I’m sure it’s easier for you to pretend all your classmates, like you, are just waiting to jump at the chance to alleviate their massive white guilt complexes,” Grantaire fires back.

Enjolras reels like he’s been slapped in the face. Grantaire continues, “We’re talking about a student body that is -- with some exceptions,” he adds as a preface, gesturing around the room, “-- predominantly white, and predominantly middle or upper class. A good third of them don’t even live in-state. This issue doesn’t affect them, even if it did happen just down the road. They’re wrapped up nice and safe in their little college bubble and that’s how they’re gonna stay. So piss in the wind if you want, but don’t be surprised when you end up with a bad taste in your mouth.”

Nothing follows his declaration but silence. Enjolras is just standing there, eyes still wide and mouth twitching like he wants to respond but can’t find the words. Grantaire feels overheated, his ears are buzzing, and he decides it’s past time to make his exit. He raps his knuckles on the table and lurches to his feet, tossing out a breezy “keep it real, guys” to Joly and Bossuet as an afterthought before he’s out of the door as fast as possible.

He makes it about ten steps before Bahorel is catching up to him and grabbing him by the shoulder. “What the fuck was that?” they demand.

“That,” Grantaire answers, “was the latest thrilling installment in the ongoing saga of Grantaire Says Shit He’s Going To Regret Later.” He’s unbelievably tired all of a sudden. Enjolras’ shocked face is stuck in his head, and he just wants to go home, collapse on his futon, and forget this night ever happened.

Bahorel looks like they’re seriously considering strangling him. Grantaire wishes they would. “So what, you’re just gonna show up drunk, talk shit about something your friends are invested in, and walk out like a drama queen? Why did you even bother coming?”

Their words hit home, and Grantaire feels even worse. Differences of opinion aside, this meeting was important to Bahorel and Courfeyrac both, and Grantaire just crashed in and derailed it because he couldn’t stop himself from pulling Enjolras’ metaphorical pigtails. _Well done, shithead._ He’s  so close to breaking down and telling Bahorel the truth -- about his out of control fixation on Enjolras, and his constant need to self-destruct, and the twisted fucked up incomprehensible minefield that is his decision-making process. But that’s stepping too close to a line he can’t cross, with Bahorel or anyone, and he just stares morosely up at them instead, hoping they can read the guilt in his eyes.

Evidently they can, because they release him with a huff. “You know I love you,” Bahorel growls. “But you’re a fucking asshole.”

“I know,” Grantaire says quietly.

Bahorel shakes their head, then asks, “How are you getting home?”

“Bus,” Grantaire replies, waving a hand in the vague direction of the stop.

Bahorel scrutinizes him for a second, tight-lipped, then says, “Don’t fall into a gutter on your way back.” They reach out a huge hand to tousle his hair once, then punch him in the shoulder a little too hard before heading back inside without another word.

“No promises,” Grantaire mutters after they’re gone. He tips his head back and blinks up at the stars swimming overhead. His limbs feel oppressively heavy, and he would love to just sink into the ground right there. Too bad reality has other plans for him.

_One foot in front of the other_ , he thinks, and begins the long walk away from the scene of another self-inflicted disaster. He can almost believe he’s used to it by now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long, I've been getting over a killer head cold and I also took a couple impromptu road trips to see Joe Spieldenner's Grantaire so that took time away from writing (humblebrag). Next chapter should be MUCH sooner!
> 
> As you've all hopefully noticed, Bahorel in this fic is a femme [two-spirit](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Two-Spirit) Navajo Indian. Seeing as I'm a cisgender white girl, please don't hesitate to call me out if and when I get things wrong.


	3. Chapter 3

_(I DON’T GIVE A FUCK) ABOUT ANYTHING, FUCK EVERYONE AND FUCK EVERYTHING --_

Grantaire gropes blindly for his phone where it’s lying next to his pillow, blaring Jon LaJoie from its speakers. He cracks his eyelids just enough to see who’s calling him -- doesn’t recognize the number, and regrets opening his eyes immediately as the daylight filtering into his apartment makes him wince. Thankfully his inebriated self had the presence of mind to close the blinds last night, at least.

He’s tempted to ignore the call, but it might be from his bank or something. Fucking financial independence with all these fucking responsibilities. He hits ‘answer’ and flops onto his back, throwing an arm over his eyes. “M’lo?”

“Hey, Grantaire?” The voice on the other end sounds way too chipper for this early in the day. Granted, it’s almost noon, but Grantaire’s throbbing head doesn’t really care about making the distinction. “It’s Jehan. From the meeting? I don’t know if you remember.”

It takes him a moment to make the connection. “No, yeah, I remember,” Grantaire mumbles. “Ginger.” He stifles a yawn.

“Sorry if I’m waking you up,” Jehan goes on. “Um, this might be kinda forward, but a little birdie told me you sort of went on a bender after last night, and I happen to be in possession of a killer hangover cure at the moment. I just thought I’d offer to share if you were interested.”

“If you’re talking about the raw egg with Worcestershire sauce, I can tell you from experience that doesn’t actually work.”

“Actually,” Jehan says, supremely casual, “I was talking more along the lines of some quality sour diesel.”

“...Oh!” Grantaire has multiple questions he should be asking, like how did Jehan get his number, and why would he want to share his weed with Grantaire in the first place. But his disoriented brain isn’t processing anything beyond FREE DRUGS at the moment. “Well, in _that_ case.”

Jehan has one of those laughs that borders on manic. It suits him. “Should I come by your place, then?”

“Um, yeah, that’s fine, I’ll just… text you the address.”

“Cool. See you in a bit!”

“Yeah, see you.” Grantaire hangs up, lies motionless on his futon for a few seconds, then directs the next word to his empty room. “ _What_?”

He honestly has no idea what’s going on. Given the way he left the meeting last night, it doesn’t make sense that one of them would be calling him the next day to hang out. Especially someone who he hasn’t spoken to except to bring him coffee that one time. Maybe Grantaire’s dysfunction is just so palpable that Jehan feels sorry for him. Whatever, his head feels like it got drop-kicked off a seven story building and he’s not going to waste brain function trying to look a gift horse in the mouth. It’ll hardly be the first time he’s lit up with a total stranger. Besides, Bahorel said the kid was cool.

Grantaire realizes he hasn’t texted Jehan yet. The light from his phone proves too much to handle, and he grabs his sunglasses off his bedside table before saving Jehan’s number and sending him the address. After a moment’s thought, he sends a follow up text.

_P.s. fair warning i’m not changing out of my pajamas_

_Wouldn’t dream of asking you to :3 be there in 10_

He still uses text smilies. Unreal. Grantaire scrolls back through his inbox, looking for clues to what happened after he got home last night. He remembers urgently needing to forget his verbal spat with Enjolras, which led to him finishing his flask and downing a few extra shots on top of that, which could very well have led to him drunk texting Bahorel or Courfeyrac in a fit of recklessness. It would explain how Jehan heard that he’d be nursing a hangover this morning.

No such easy explanation, though. The only texts he sent last night were to Eponine -- one from right after he got home ( _Whiskey and i are no longer freinds. im cutting it out of my life. as soon as i finish this bottle obvs shit is expensivee_ ) and one from about half an hour later ( _EVRYTIHNG HAPENS SOOOOOO MUCH?? whhy do u evne let em leave the apt. fuckkgjhslsfkjh_ ). So that leaves Grantaire wondering what kind of sorcery Jehan used to get his phone number and insight into his drinking habits. He’s feeling a little unnerved.

A few more minutes pass before Grantaire can summon the energy to roll out of bed and pull on sweatpants. Thankfully the t-shirt he slept in doesn’t have any leftover vomit decorating it. Must have paced himself better last night than he thought. He’s debating whether or not he should try eating something when there’s a knock at the door.

“Nice glasses,” is the first thing Jehan says.

“Nice pants,” Grantaire blurts out, because Jehan is wearing camouflage cargo pants of all things. They’re made out of some vaguely shiny material, and he’s paired them with a violet shirt and star-patterned boots. Grantaire thinks back to the blinding orange and paisley from the protest and wonders whether that was supposed to be an attempt at dressing _less_ outrageously.

Jehan looks down at his ensemble, then looks back to Grantaire with a smile tugging his lips sideways. “Is this too much swag for you?” he asks gravely.

“Oh my _god_ ,” Grantaire laughs, slumping sideways against the door frame. “Come on inside, you’re letting all the light in. Also please never say the word ‘swag’ again,” he adds once Jehan is past him.

“Noted.” Jehan gives the studio a once-over. “This is you, huh? It’s nice.”

“It’s shit,” Grantaire replies matter-of-factly, because it is. The room is tiny, the walls need painting, and you can count the pieces of furniture he owns on one hand. But it’s $550 a month with utilities included, which is what really counts.

“It’s yours though, right? I mean, you pay the rent?”

“Yeah.”

Jehan looks at him steadily. “So it’s freedom,” he says. “Nothing more beautiful than that.”

Grantaire pauses for a beat while he gauges the kid’s sincerity. “Well, if you define ‘freedom’ as surrendering to the rat race to keep a roof over your head, then sure.”

“As if there’s something inherently degrading about serving coffee for a living.” Jehan settles onto the couch, digging in one of his numerous pants pockets. “I’m just saying it’s great that you’re able to support yourself. Like, my parents are paying for my apartment right now, which is normal for people our age, but even so it still makes me feel like a bit of a leech, you know? It’s really cool that you’re doing your own thing.”

_Ah yes, so cool being kicked out of your house because your father can’t handle what a fuck-up his son is._ “If you say so.” Grantaire grabs the trash can from next to his futon and brings it over to the coffee table where Jehan is busy breaking up the weed. “You live off campus?”

“Mhmm.” Jehan flicks a stem into the trash. “Do you have a pipe or something, or should I roll us some joints?”

“Roll away, by all means.” Grantaire’s more of a social toker these days -- he’s already got booze and cigarettes, can’t very well afford a third habit. Since Jehan’s occupying the couch, he opts for his beanbag chair, which is the second closest thing in the room to furniture. “So,” Grantaire says, not forgetting the mystery at hand, “I didn’t talk to Bahorel or Courfeyrac after I got home last night.”

“...Okay?”

“You said ‘a little birdie’ told you I was hung over.”

“Oh, right. No, it wasn’t either of them, it was Montparnasse.”

_That_ was unexpected. The way the information travelled is obvious now, but… “How the fuck do you know Montparnasse?” Grantaire asks incredulously. Montparnasse is of the opinion that college kids are all overprivileged yuppies and usually steers clear of the popular student hangouts (except when he’s in the mood to mug some drunk frat boys, but that’s a different story).

“Met him at a club. Like a week or so into the semester. Do you have any honey?”

The change in topic throws Grantaire. “For what?”

“For the joint,” Jehan explains. “Makes it burn slower. It tastes awesome too.”

“Ah. No honey, sorry. I’ll keep that in mind though.” Jehan hums a little sadly before continuing to work. He’s fidgety, Grantaire notices, little unconscious twitches in his elbows and knees. Grantaire watches him for a second then comments, “Since when does Montparnasse go to clubs?”

“Well, he did the night I met him.” Jehan shrugs. “We’ve hung out a few times. He’s cool. Actually he got me the hookup for this,” he mentions, gesturing toward the weed scattered across the table.

Grantaire smirks. “Sounds like Montparnasse. He always does know who’s got the best drugs.”

“I had no idea you two were friends,” Jehan remarks as he pulls out a pack of rolling papers.

“Ehh, we’ve known each other a long time. Not sure if that qualifies as friends.” One side effect of spending time at the Thenardiers’ is rubbing elbows with various shady characters, but Montparnasse is the only one Grantaire would claim any sort of acquaintanceship with. Their closeness in age helps, but mainly Montparnasse is just around _all the time_ , maintaining his persistent semi-serious flirtation with Eponine. It would be skeevy if Grantaire didn’t know that Eponine would knock Montparnasse’s teeth out if he ever crossed the line with her. She hasn’t yet, so either she truly doesn’t care or she likes the attention. Grantaire suspects the latter, but he very wisely keeps that to himself.

Jehan has folded up a filter and is sprinkling a liberal amount of weed onto the paper. He tucks one edge over, wets the other with his tongue, then deftly rolls it up the rest of the way. He’s clearly had a lot of practice. Grantaire doubts he’d be able to roll a joint that fast if someone paid him.

“There you go.” Jehan holds the joint out to him. “Burn it off.” Grantaire leans forward to take it, and also to grab his lighter off the table where it’s lying next to his ashtray. “You’re sure we’re okay to smoke in here?”

“Yeah, it’ll air out. My neighbors are gonna smell it through the vents if they’re home, but they don’t give a shit.” Grantaire lights the tip of the joint and inhales. It stings the back of his throat a little, but he holds it in, waiting until the urge to cough passes before breathing the smoke out slowly. It tastes good in that bitter sort of way. Jehan is rolling a second joint for himself, so Grantaire takes another leisurely hit, exhaling through his nose this time. He can already feel the light-headedness creeping up on him and starting to dilute the pounding in his skull. God, it’s been a long time since he got high.

The second joint is hanging unlit from Jehan’s lips. He’s got his phone out and is staring at the screen, looking troubled. “Everything okay?” Grantaire asks.

Jehan’s head snaps up. “Yeah, fine. Just stuff going on at school, you know.” His voice sounds a little forced.

_You’re a bad liar_ , Grantaire thinks, but he just passes Jehan the lighter without comment. Not like it’s any of his business. He feels the need for ambient noise suddenly, and hops up to open his laptop and pull up iTunes. Ratatat seems like as good a choice as any. “You want a drink or something?” he offers. Jehan hesitates a second, and Grantaire adds, “I do have nonalcoholic beverages, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

Jehan’s cheeks are slightly pink, but all he says is, “I’m good, thanks. Maybe later.” When Grantaire sits back down, he notices Jehan squinting at him. “Is that a tattoo?”

“Oh, yeah.” Grantaire tugs the collar of his shirt down far enough for the ink below his left collarbone to be fully visible. It’s nondescript, just two short lines with three words each. “It’s from a poem, it means --”

“Let my heart become drunk upon a lie,” Jehan murmurs, voice soft. His eyes are shining.

Grantaire blinks. “You read French?”

A smile sneaks its way across Jehan’s face. He sits back and recites, “ _Laissez mon coeur s’enivrer d’un mensonge, plonger dans vos beaux yeux comme dans un beau songe, et sommeiller longtemps à l’ombre de vos cils!_ ” The poetry flows intimately easy off his tongue. Grantaire finds himself spellbound by it.

Jehan is still smiling. “You’re a Baudelaire fan,” he says, sounding pleased somehow.

“Well yeah, dude was fucked up. It’s what I look for in a man.” _Current unhealthy obsession with a certain blonde asshole notwithstanding_. Grantaire takes a drag from his joint before motioning to his chest and adding, “It was either this or a line from L’Irréparable.”

There’s a pause before Jehan says thoughtfully, “This explains so much.”

“Hey now,” Grantaire protests. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Don’t act like you don’t know _exactly_ what that means.” Jehan’s looking at Grantaire like he’s trying to see inside his head, and Grantaire is immediately thankful he has his sunglasses to hide behind.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” he mumbles. “I’m a basket case, you didn’t need a Baudelaire reference to tell you that much. Is it my turn now to psychoanalyze you based on your favorite poet?”

Jehan shrugs carelessly. “If you want, but we’ll be here all day. I’m kind of triple majoring in literature with a poetry concentration, so. Open that door at your own risk.”

“Wow,” Grantaire deadpans. “Hidden depths of nerd cred, I see. How do you triple major in literature, anyway?”

“English lit, Spanish lit, French lit,” Jehan explains, ticking them off on his fingers. “Although I’m thinking about adding German my junior year. Maybe.”

“Wait, how many languages do you speak?”

“Well,” Jehan begins, leaning back and pulling his feet up to sit cross-legged on the couch. Grantaire realizes that his boots actually have star _fish_ on them. “I had a Spanish nanny, so I grew up speaking English and Spanish. Then I took French in middle school and high school, and I also taught myself Italian in high school, but that was easy because it’s really similar to Spanish. And then I just started learning German over the summer, but I wouldn’t say I’m fluent yet, so you can either count that or not.”

The only thing Grantaire learned over the summer was how much he sucks at budgeting. “What, that’s it? You didn’t teach yourself how to read Elvish when you were ten?”

Jehan blushes again, then admits, “I actually did though! For like, a year or two.” He laughs a little hysterically after the confession, and his hand flies up to cover his mouth. Grantaire’s so busy being amused he almost misses it when Jehan’s sleeve rides up enough to reveal the thin scars just above his wrist. But he doesn’t miss it, and the sight is enough to conjure up a surge of bittersweet affection. Just like that he’s feeling an acute sense of kinship with this kid, this kid with his weird laugh who gets inordinately excited over Baudelaire tattoos and wears fucking _starfish boots_. Jesus.

Jehan’s phone chimes and he grabs it off the table. He’s tense all of a sudden, but he relaxes as soon as he reads the screen. Grantaire assumes he was expecting something else.

“Seriously, dude, you keep looking at your phone like it’s gonna bite you.”

“Oh, it’s nothing,” Jehan says, still not entirely convincing. “I’m waiting for a text from someone.”

Grantaire _wants_ to ask this time, but he knows an inevitably awkward conversation when he sees one, so he changes the subject instead. “So where are you living? You said you have an apartment, right?”

“West of campus. Like fifteen minutes or so. It’s right off of Caldwell, if you know where that is?”

“Yeah, I know where it is.” So he lives in the opposite direction from downtown -- in one of the nice neighborhoods. Grantaire is going to have to give Montparnasse some serious grief next time he sees him for breaking his own rule about not associating with rich white kids. “How come you didn’t want to live in the dorms? I mean, the big thing about freshman year is the ‘college experience’, right?”

Jehan pulls a face and leans forward to tap the ash off the end of his joint before taking another prolonged hit. “I thought about it a lot,” he says on the exhale. “I do kind of feel like I’m missing out on some of the community of it, but… honestly, at the end of the day I didn’t want to risk someone having a problem with me being on a ‘boys’ floor.” The word “boys” gets finger quoted. “Housing wasn’t real helpful on that front, so.”

“Why would someone have --” Grantaire stops mid-sentence as the realization sets in. Jehan is staring at him, eyebrows raised. “ _Wow_ , never mind, sorry. Stupid question.”

“It’s okay.” Jehan shifts in his seat, hunching his shoulders a little more forward, and Grantaire can see that what he mistook for unconscious fidgeting earlier is exactly the opposite -- Jehan is _hyper_ -conscious of how he’s holding his body at any given moment. “I mean, passing’s the goal. For me anyway. So it’s good to know it’s working.” His tone is casual, but there’s a flicker of caution in his eyes. He’s evidently anxious about this topic being broached. Grantaire can only imagine.

“Well, if it’s any condolence, I don’t think you’re missing out on too much. Personally I hated dorm life. Except for the parties, but it’s not like you have to live on campus to go to those. I also had a ton of roommate drama though, so your mileage may vary. We can’t all be as lucky with our living situations as Courfeyrac and Marius.”

“Or Joly and Bossuet,” Jehan adds. “It’s weird, almost all my friends have like, perfect roommate relationships. So I guess statistically I would probably be the one person to have an issue if I _was_ living in the dorms.”

Now there’s a line of thought Grantaire can relate to. Jehan continues, “But still, I’m hanging out on campus so much as it is, it feels like a waste sometimes to drive back to my empty apartment at the end of the day, you know? Maybe I should get a cat.”

“Just move into Bahorel’s suite,” Grantaire suggests. “Sleep on the couch. I guarantee nobody in their dorm would give a shit.”

“Um, if I’m moving in with them, I’m definitely sleeping in the ball pit,” Jehan corrects him. “You’ve seen it, right?”

The ball pit is legendary. Bahorel, after finding out last year that Walmart sells the plastic balls at $20 for a hundred, bought ten packs and constructed a makeshift pit out of cinder blocks and cardboard in their suite’s living room. It made them the most popular dorm on campus for almost a solid month. “I am on intimate terms with Bahorel’s ball pit, believe me.”

Jehan narrows his eyes. “Please don’t tell me you fucked someone in there.”

“I like that that’s the first place your mind went,” Grantaire laughs. “Nah, I threw up in it once. Much less glamorous.”

“Sex in a ball pit sounds more painful than glamorous if you ask me,” Jehan points out.

“There are _so many_ ball-related puns I could choose from right now,” Grantaire says. Jehan groans theatrically, trailing off into giggles at the end of it. It surprises Grantaire how comfortable their conversation feels. The spaciness the weed is inducing probably has something to do with that, but even so, it seems like he could say whatever and Jehan would roll with it. He decides to test that theory. “Hey, serious question. Why’d you want to come over and smoke me up?”

Jehan shrugs. “Cause I like you,” he says simply.

“You don’t know me.”

“Not yet,” Jehan replies, leaning an elbow on the couch and gazing at Grantaire frankly. “But Bahorel and Courfeyrac know you, and I think they’re pretty good judges of character. Besides, you’re interesting. Everything about you seems so _real_ , and yet at the same time you’re totally full of shit. It’s a weird combination, but it works for you.”

He’s not sure where Jehan pulled that assessment from, but it’s more accurate than Grantaire’s willing to admit. First time he’s ever heard someone say it like a positive though. “Thanks? I guess? I doubt your fearless leader and his boyfriend would agree with you, but at least one person doesn’t think I’m just some drunk asshole.”

“...Wait, whose boyfriend?” Jehan seems confused.

“Enjolras and Combeferre.”

Jehan’s eyes go impossibly wide before he collapses onto his side, cackling uncontrollably. Grantaire is lost. There’s no reason this should be so hilarious, unless -- “They’re not dating, are they.”

“ _No_ ,” Jehan manages breathlessly. Grantaire thinks back over all the time and energy he’d spent moping about this over the last five days. Incredible. He could shoot himself in the foot. Jehan pushes himself upright and continues, “It is an easy mistake to make though, what with the kissing and the psychic connection and the lack of personal space. But no, they’re just really, really close friends. Besides, Combeferre’s like, the straightest dude I’ve ever met.”

_Implying that Enjolras is something other than straight?_ Not like it makes a difference, Grantaire reminds himself, after the way he left things between them last night. Jehan is still giggling, and Grantaire leans over to breathe a plume of smoke into his face in mock retaliation. “Well, my ignorance has clearly been a highlight of your day. I’m feeling proud about this.”

“It was just your _face_!” Jehan squeaks. “You looked like I just told you the earth wasn’t round or something.”

“Well shit, for all I know it isn’t!” Grantaire throws his hands into the air, feigning bewilderment. “I mean, I’m questioning everything now. What else isn’t true? Were the dinosaurs a hoax this whole time? _Is_ Milhouse actually a meme?”

Jehan cocks his head to the side. “Milhouse?”

“Oh, it’s Internet history from the ancient scrolls of 4chan. I just dated myself, didn’t I.”

“Just a bit,” Jehan says with a grin. His phone goes off again, and he plucks it expectantly from the table. Then he sits straight up, mouth falling slightly open as he stares at his screen. His eyes are getting rounder by the second. Grantaire guesses he finally got that text he was waiting for.

“Good news or bad?”

Jehan doesn’t reply at first, totally absorbed in his phone. His fingers tap away at the keypad, his eyebrows shoot up towards his hairline, and when he eventually looks up at Grantaire, that same sneaky smile is spreading across his face again. “Hey, grab your laptop,” he tells him in lieu of an answer.

Grantaire can hear the restrained excitement in his voice, and he’s definitely curious now. He retrieves his computer from next to his bed, hitting pause on the music as he does, and brings it over. Jehan scoots to one side to make room for Grantaire to sit on the couch next to him, then grabs the laptop and types away hurriedly. When he sets the laptop on the coffee table so it’s between them, Grantaire sees nothing but a video player against a solid background -- nothing to explain why Jehan is practically vibrating to the left of him.

The video finishes loading. Grantaire’s not sure what he’s anticipating, but it’s certainly not for Enjolras’ face to suddenly appear onscreen, blue eyes boring into the camera with intense focus. He’s the only thing in frame, but from the wall behind him Grantaire can tell this was filmed in a dorm room. He begins to speak.

“My name is Enjolras. A little over an hour ago I made a phone call to local police informing them of an unidentified shooter on campus. There’s a link to the call at the bottom of this page. The police responded immediately, as I knew they would, and for the past hour they’ve been detaining anyone who fit their profile of ‘suspicious individual,’ as I also knew they would.

“The phone call was false. There is no shooter. The whole situation was fabricated. I apologize greatly to the students and faculty whose lives and whose safety I’ve disrupted today. If any families of people on campus are watching, I apologize to you as well for making you believe your loved ones were in danger. Most of all I apologize to anyone who was wrongly apprehended by officers as a result of my actions, because the point here was not an imaginary incident, but the manner in which the police responded to that incident.

“I invite all of you to click the link and listen to the original call. I described the gunman as a suspicious-looking male, not necessarily a student. I intentionally made no mention of age or ethnicity. Yet from what I’ve seen personally and what I’ve heard from friends, the overwhelming majority of people detained as potential suspects have been young black men. I’m sure you’ve all witnessed similar things in the last hour -- our classmates being targeted, in certain cases being physically harassed, because their skin color was synonymous with ‘suspicious’. For some of you, seeing racial profiling in action may have been a shock. For others I’m sure it wasn’t, unfortunately.

“I’m aware that if things had gone differently today, someone could have been seriously injured or even killed, and that would have been my fault. I’m grateful that didn’t happen. But sadly this was not an isolated case, and racial profiling too often results in the loss of innocent lives, as it did with the murder of Antoine Marineau by a local police officer just a few days ago. If you’re not familiar with that shooting, please google it. He was guilty only of the same thing our fellow students were: being black near the scene of a crime. It cost him his life, and the officer who shot him continues to serve in the field and carry a weapon.

“A police force without discipline and that operates on fear and prejudice is not the kind of police force I want protecting me. I hope all of you feel the same way, and I urge all of you to take action. We can’t bring about justice for Antoine Marineau and all the other victims of police violence, but we can bring about progress. Underneath this video is a link to a petition for the officer who shot Marineau to be relieved of active duty, as well as for the police department to mandate higher standards for weapons training. There are also phone numbers and mailing addresses for the police commissioner and the department of internal affairs. Signatures help, but phone calls and letters help more. And for those of you who are local and have friends and family in the area, please pass this on to them as well. The community needs to be as loud as possible on this issue.”

Enjolras’ voice has been more or less level throughout the video, but now his eyes blaze a little more fiercely and a sharp undertone swells beneath his words. If a herd of rhinos came charging through the wall right now Grantaire still wouldn’t be able to look away.

“For the record, and to any school or police officials who are watching, I take full and singular responsibility for planning and executing this event. Some of you are no doubt angry with me for taking matters into my own hands and taking liberties with your safety, and you have every right to be. I don’t expect this video is going to make me popular. I can only hope any of you that feel this way understand why I did what I did, and that you don’t let your anger at me personally get in the way of making a change.”

The video ends, but Grantaire keeps staring numbly at the screen. He’s way too high for this.

Jehan’s scrolling through his phone again. “Well the petition’s getting hits… oh wow, someone started a hashtag… oh, _wow_.” He raises his head. “Courf says Enjolras is on the phone with the newspaper right now.”

Grantaire’s only half listening to him, still caught up in processing that the boy he’s obsessed with is apparently a _fucking lunatic_. “So this is what you all came up with after I fucked off,” he manages to say.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jehan says airily. “‘Full and singular responsibility,’ remember?”

“Yeah, yeah, someone had to be the face of this so the school couldn’t blame it on the club.” And of course that someone was Enjolras. Enjolras, with all his headstrong idealism and beautiful, beautiful fury. “Well, he’s certainly got the face for it,” Grantaire adds dazedly as an afterthought.

He feels Jehan go still for a second, then the other boy leans across to crush out the tiny remains of his joint into the ashtray. When Grantaire looks over at him, he’s wearing the same expression from earlier, the one where’s he’s staring not so much _at_ Grantaire as _through_ him. There’s something a little soft and melancholy about it this time though.

Jehan sounds like he’s been weighing his words when he speaks. “You should keep coming to the meetings.”

Of all the unexpected things out of Jehan’s mouth so far, that was certainly the most unexpected. “Yeah, right. Enjolras would love that. He’d only murder me as soon as I walked through the door.”

“It’s not a dictatorship,” Jehan points out. “Enjolras can’t just ban whoever he wants.”

“Look, don’t take this the wrong way,” Grantaire says. “You’re obviously into the whole making-a-difference thing. Which is great, you know, more power to you, everyone’s gotta have a hobby. It’s just not mine.”

Jehan’s mouth twitches indecipherably. “See, I’m not so convinced.”

“Seriously? Because cynicism is kind of my style, maybe you haven’t noticed. What do you honestly think I would get out of it?”

“Maybe I’m wrong,” Jehan says with a shrug. “But… I don’t think you’d make such an effort to be cynical if some part of you didn’t really want to believe things could be better. That’s all.”

_Well, shit_. Grantaire’s at a rare loss for words. Finally he swallows hard, cocks his head to the side, and tips his sunglasses down far enough to make eye contact with Jehan over the rim. “Anyone ever tell you you’re more dangerous than you look?”

Amazingly, Jehan dips his head and blushes harder than ever at that. Grantaire can see why Bahorel likes him so much. All the same, he’s not really in the mood right now for any more acute commentary on the workings of his psyche. “Hey listen, thanks for the joint.” He passes what’s left of it back to Jehan -- it had smoldered out while he was distracted by the video. “I gotta get ready for work though, so…”

“Oh, sure. Any time.” Jehan slips the roach back into his baggie and pockets it. He gives Grantaire one last meaningful glance as he stands up. “See you around, yeah?”

Grantaire lets his head fall back against the couch cushions. “Yeah. Probably.”

Jehan’s smile is small but satisfied. The room somehow feels a little less warm once he’s gone. Grantaire knows he should be getting in the shower, but he gives himself the necessary time to lie there and reevaluate the past 24 hours. His friends know some very surprising people. Enjolras is in a league all his own, sure, but the more Grantaire sees of the rest of them… it seems implausible to admit how much he’s already attracted towards the easy camaraderie that runs throughout this little group, so he doesn’t let himself admit it. He’s good at that.

*

Because Grantaire is an indecisive bastard, it takes him until the following Monday to make up his mind about how to proceed. More precisely, his mind is made up for him when he steps out for his morning cigarette and discovers a newspaper article taped to his door. The headline proclaims POLICE OFFICER RESIGNS AFTER FALLOUT FROM UNIVERSITY STUNT.

Grantaire can’t help grinning as he reads. When he gets to the end of the clipping, there’s a note attached.

_If you wake up in time, Enjolras gets out of his poli sci class at 12:30. Weinberg Hall. xoxo gossip Jehan_

_Cheeky little shit_ , Grantaire thinks affectionately. It’s not exactly a conscious decision, but shortly after his cigarette, he’s grabbing some beef jerky as a to-go breakfast and heading for the bus stop.

It takes him a bit of wandering to find Weinberg, he never had much reason to remember where the poli sci lectures were held. By the time he’s outside the main entrance, it’s almost 12:30. Grantaire settles down at one of the picnic tables on the lawn and braces himself.

He doesn’t have to wait long. The more students filter out with no sign of Enjolras, the more restless Grantaire gets. His knee is bouncing from nerves, and he catches himself wishing he had a shot of liquid courage to help ease this along. Though given what happened last time he and Enjolras were in the same space together it’s probably for the best that he’s sober right now.

A glimmer of gold passes through the doors; Grantaire’s on his feet immediately. Enjolras is bearing left, walking in the opposite direction from the dining hall, despite it being lunchtime. Eating is assumedly not high on his list of priorities.

Grantaire drifts after him. Gathering his voice proves to be an effort, but he gets there. “Hey! Enjolras!”

Enjolras turns towards the greeting. His mouth drops open for a split second, reminiscent of the lost-for-words expression he had last time Grantaire saw him right before walking out of the meeting. “Grantaire.” He sounds more startled than irritated. Grantaire’s gonna take that as a hopeful sign.

“Hey,” he says again, faltering. Enjolras has on a well-worn shirt that’s almost exactly the same vivid blue of his eyes. It’s very distracting. He tries to keep his tone casual. “So, uh, I heard some cop lost his job. You know anything about that?”

The ghost of a smile crosses Enjolras’ face. “Sounds familiar,” he deadpans. “I heard he resigned. Something about a lapse in judgement in the field and wanting to leave honorably.”

“‘Lapse in judgement’,” Grantaire repeats. “Well it’s real comforting to know how strongly our police feel the obligation to their sacred duty.”

Enjolras’ ghost of a smile morphs into the ghost of a smirk. It makes him look haughty, but does nothing to make him less attractive. If anything it has the opposite effect. Grantaire’s mouth feels very dry suddenly and he shoves his hands self-consciously into his pockets. _Just apologize. Just get it over with. You’re a mature person who can do this_. “I, um. Look. I wanted to --”

“Sorry,” Enjolras cuts him off, glancing over his shoulder. “I kind of have this thing I have to get to --”

Grantaire’s prepared for Enjolras to blow him off. It’s the logical reaction. He’s not prepared for Enjolras to look back at him and say, “Did you want to walk with me?”

After a stunned pause, Grantaire chokes out an “Okay?” and falls into step with Enjolras. He has to pace himself slightly faster than normal to keep up with the other boy’s longer stride.

“So what were you going to say?” Enjolras prompts him after a brief silence. Grantaire had been formulating an apology, but the shock of Enjolras willingly inviting Grantaire to spend time in his company knocked the words right out of his head. So he says the first thing that comes to mind instead.

“I’m kind of surprised you’re still going to class. Administration didn’t suspend you or anything?”

“I’m on academic probation for the rest of the semester,” Enjolras says, sounding utterly unconcerned about the fact. “And I got a fine for abusing police resources. Nothing major.”

“How much?”

“Five thousand.”

Grantaire whistles sharply. “Shit.”

“It’s… whatever.” Enjolras’ face has assumed a wooden aspect. “It’s not like it’s my money.”

“No, of course not. So what, you’re a trust fund baby? How convenient.” Enjolras goes even stiffer, and Grantaire sees right away that he’s hit a nerve. “Sorry.”

Enjolras shakes his head a little. “You’re not wrong.” He has the decency to sound awkward admitting it, like a normal human instead of the golden personification of social justice. It catches Grantaire for a second. He’s trying to think of how to respond when Enjolras suddenly says, “I know what you think of me. That I’m a showoff rich kid who’s trying to overcompensate for his privilege.”

“I don’t think that.”

“You said I had a massive white guilt complex.”

Grantaire has to concede that. Enjolras continues. “I’m aware I’m in a position where I can easily speak over people. The video I posted…” He breaks off agitatedly. Grantaire just stays silent and watches him search for the words. “It wasn’t my place to be front and center on this, not when I’m not the one affected by the issue at hand.”

Grantaire realizes what Enjolras is getting at. “Okay, so say it had been Combeferre on that video. Then it would have been Combeferre who had to deal with the consequences, yeah? Somehow I don’t think he would have gotten off with just academic probation and a fine. You made the practical choice, doesn’t mean you’re speaking over anyone.”

Judging from Enjolras’ face, he’s disconcerted at getting a response that isn’t passive-aggressive hostility. Grantaire reflects that he’s really done a piss poor job of conveying that he doesn’t actually hate Enjolras’ guts. He’s uncomfortable, so he keeps talking. “Besides, not to get all white savior-y about this, but you can’t deny you’re an effective spokesperson. Perks of being the poster boy for upper class America.”

Enjolras scoffs. “I’m hardly a poster boy.”

“Oh come on. You’re male, thin, WASPy, and gorgeous -- if it wasn’t for the hair you’d be perfect.”

“Yeah, that and the whole gay thing,” Enjolras says wryly. He glances at Grantaire, presumably waiting to see if he’ll react. Grantaire is internally doing backflips in celebration, but he’s not about to let on.

“Okay, so add that in with ‘male thin WASPy and gorgeous,’ you’re the poster boy for upper class gay America. Almost as lucrative a market, honestly, what with taking over Hollywood and the media and all. Think of what you and Dan Savage could accomplish together.”

Enjolras actually physically winces, and Grantaire can’t help laughing. Enjolras shoots him a sideways frown. “You did that on purpose,” he accuses, catching on. Grantaire laughs harder.

“Guilty. You are kind of an easy target, it’s hard to resist.” Enjolras’ only response is silence. Grantaire’s starting to worry he’s overstepped, but then Enjolras speaks again.

“Do you really think Cloutier wanted to resign honorably?”

_Well, that’s not a leading question at all_. “Do you?”

Enjolras smiles, but there’s no warmth behind it. “I had a disciplinary meeting with the dean yesterday,” he says. “There was a police inspector there who was kind enough to enlighten me on some of the inner workings of the department over these past few days -- off the record, of course.”

“Of course.”

“He made it very clear that in the eyes of the higher-ups, Cloutier was just following orders. But due to all the backlash from the public and the media, the commissioner decided the prudent thing to do would be to remove him from active duty. Cloutier then decided he didn’t want to spend the rest of his career pushing paper and would rather leave the force altogether. Apparently he took it pretty hard.”

“Gosh, I feel just awful for the guy,” Grantaire says flatly.

“Yeah, well, as far as Inspector Javert is concerned, Cloutier’s innocent and I’m responsible for destroying a good officer’s future. And most of the department feels the same way. He told me the only reason I was getting off with just a fine is because the commissioner didn’t want to risk any more attention. All the same, I wouldn’t be surprised if they try to charge me with a misdemeanor next time I run a red light or something.”

“Wow, that’s… really shitty.”

Enjolras shrugs ambivalently. “It’s the way things had to happen, I guess.”

“Yeah sure, someone had to fall on their sword over this. Sorry it had to be you though.”

“I’m not,” Enjolras replies in an instant, as if the very idea offended him. “It’s worth it. I’d do the same thing tomorrow.”

_He means it_ , Grantaire realizes, and the understanding washes over him like the sun breaking out from behind a bank of clouds. Enjolras is the genuine article. He isn’t just on this activism kick for brownie points or to help himself sleep at night; he does it because it matters. And he’s _not naive_ , which is the really remarkable part -- he knows what he’s up against and he knows enough to color outside the lines when necessary. It seems too good to be true, and yet here he is. Walking and breathing and existing.

At the same time as Grantaire is recognizing all this, he recognizes something else, too. Even though Enjolras likes guys, even though he and Combeferre are just platonic life partners, and even though by some miracle he doesn’t want to strangle Grantaire on sight, there is no chance in this lifetime or the next of anything happening between them. Enjolras is exceptional, and Grantaire is the furthest thing from it. He thinks that the epiphany should make him depressed, but instead he feels an odd sense of freedom. The irrevocable attraction is still there -- stronger than ever -- but knowing there won’t be any cause to act on it removes all the stress from the equation. Go figure.

“Thanks for the concern, though,” Enjolras adds. “If that’s what that was.”

“Oh, it was,” Grantaire confirms. “Although on second thought, maybe I should be more concerned for the cops. They’re the ones with the real problem.”

Enjolras clears his throat. Grantaire didn’t notice that they’d stopped walking -- the campus library is directly ahead of them, and Enjolras motions towards the entrance. “Well, this is my stop.”

Grantaire remembers with a jolt that he never actually said what he came here to say in the first place. “Oh! Wait!” Enjolras turns back to him, eyebrow raised. “Real quick, I uh… I wanted to say sorry. About making a scene at the meeting. I shouldn’t have said any of that stuff, it was out of line.”

Enjolras tilts his head to one side and frowns. It’s not an angry frown though. “Well, you did make a scene. I wouldn’t say you were out of line though.”

“...Really?”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras says slowly, still frowning, “it was what you said at the meeting that gave me the idea to do the fake gunman call in the first place.”

Grantaire’s stunned. It must show on his face, because Enjolras explains. “You said the students wouldn’t care about the issue because it didn’t affect them. So we had to make it affect them. This wouldn’t have happened without you.”

“All right, now you’re just being modest,” Grantaire says. “You would’ve reached the same conclusion eventually.”

“Maybe so,” Enjolras concedes. “But that’s not how it happened.” He breaks off for a second, looking a little pained. “Any movement needs to be self-aware if it’s going to be successful. If you’re not willing to learn from criticism then you’ll keep making the same mistakes.”

Grantaire vaguely senses that Enjolras has a point here. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying if you wanted to keep coming to meetings, I wouldn’t be opposed,” Enjolras says a little stiffly. “Provided you leave the flask at home.”

Grantaire ducks his head sheepishly. “Yeah, right. Sorry about that too.” He thinks he can see what’s going on here. Enjolras may have issues with him personally, but like a good leader, he’ll take whatever resources he can get. Which is fine by Grantaire. He doesn’t need to be liked, he just needs a pretext to come bask in Enjolras’ glow every so often. And now he’s got one. He spreads his hands in front of him. “Well, who am I to deny the revolution its recommended dose of criticism?”

Enjolras rolls his eyes and turns away. “See you Wednesday,” he calls without looking back as he heads up the library steps. Grantaire watches until he’s disappeared through the doors, then whips out his phone to text Eponine.

_I think i just joined a cult_

_ Say what?? _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no excuse for how slow this update was in coming. This writing shit is hard. Thanks for sticking around though! If anyone's curious, Grantaire's ringtone is "Fuck Everything" by Jon LaJoie, which y'all should really listen to if you want the full experience. (Also just in case I didn't make it clear enough yes, Jehan is trans. There's a reason for that beyond me wanting more diversity within the Amis and if anyone guesses it you get a cookie. And again if my cis ignorance is showing at any point in my writing please let me know.)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. To anybody still following this, thanks for sticking around. Adulthood is not conducive to writing fic, as it turns out, but I'm unemployed now so I have way more free time and also the energy to kick my butt into gear more often. As a heartfelt thank you for the patience and an apology for the months of waiting, have two chapters at once with this update. You guys rock.

It turns out Enjolras was right when he predicted his stunt wasn’t going to gain him any popularity -- more accurately, it doesn’t gain the club any popularity. Despite Enjolras’ claim that he acted alone, the majority of the student body isn’t interested in signing up to be counted as part of a bunch of radicals. The fact that word has spread about Enjolras’ suspension and the club being under scrutiny by the dean doesn’t help either. By the time the next meeting rolls around, membership has thinned out a bit, but the ones who are still there are obviously in for the duration. And then there’s Grantaire.

He finds it surprisingly easy to fall right into sync with the rest of the group. When he slips into the lounge next Wednesday night Joly and Bossuet immediately wave him over and engage him in their debate on the relative merits of playing as Boo or Toad in Mario Kart. The booze-fueled outburst is never brought up, and Grantaire spends the next few weeks becoming more and more acclimated to this eclectic little crew of would-be insurgents.

Bahorel was pretty much on the money when they estimated half the time spent in meetings is just random discourse rather than productivity. Grantaire supposes it’s only natural in a room full of college kids in varying shades of leftism. There’s inevitably a good deal of derailing and side arguments going on. In fact, during that first Wednesday Grantaire comes back, he witnesses Marius ad Enjolras take up nearly fifteen minutes disputing over the corruption in the Democratic party (and of course Enjolras is one of those “trust no political party” diehards). For his part, Grantaire mostly sits back and cracks the occasional joke or plays cynicism’s advocate when it suits him. It’s usually because he’s trying to make Joly laugh, or to see how far he can get Enjolras’ eyes to roll back into his head, not because he feels a need to actually contribute. He’s not about to pretend he’s here out of civic duty -- sure, okay, maybe he admires the group’s cause more than he lets on, but he’s a social creature, and more fond of people as individuals than as a collective.

So he observes. It teaches him a lot about everyone’s particular societal passions, of course. He learns that Courfeyrac, even though he can’t be bothered to memorize facts for his classes, can rattle off nationwide rape statistics at the drop of a hat. He learns that as serene and collected as Combeferre unfailingly is, the words “sex-positive feminism” will make him squirm like he just broke out in hives, and then go on a heated tirade about the dangers of exclusionary libfem rhetoric, not to mention the asinine line of thinking behind rebranding feminism to make it more palatable for your average heterosexual male.

But he learns other things too. Like that Jehan only learned Italian because he’s an enormous fucking geek who wanted to read Dante’s Inferno in its original text. Or that Enjolras somehow made it through high school without having seen a single John Hughes, Tarantino, or Star Wars movie. Or that Joly believes sleeping with his bed facing south will keep his circulatory system aligned with Earth’s magnetic current, but he thinks astrology is a crock of shit (“spoken like a true Virgo,” Bossuet declares). The more little idiosyncrasies Grantaire discovers among Les Amis, the more endeared he becomes to all of them. It gets to the point where in less than a month, he feels more at home around them than he ever did with his biological family -- or with his dormmates from last year, for that matter. Just his luck that he would find the perfect on-campus niche for himself _after_ he had already dropped out of school. It’s even more ironic that said niche is in a social activism club, but hey, he’s always thrived on irony.

Still, as unforeseeably comfortable as Grantaire is surrounded by these guys, he doesn’t really see them outside of meetings. Jehan, Joly, and Bossuet all have his number, and he texts them occasionally, but not to make plans or anything. It just feels kind of presumptuous to invite himself into their social circle. The fact that his neurotic brain persists in telling him that his presence at meetings is tolerated more than it’s enjoyed doesn’t help much. So it’s a little out of the blue for him when, the week before Halloween, he walks into work to see his boss in the middle of a conversation with Combeferre and a dreadlocked guy Grantaire doesn’t recognize.

“Hey Mabeuf, are these guys bothering you? Say the word and I’ll kick them out.”

Mabeuf and the stranger look a little taken aback, but Combeferre is grinning. “I forgot you worked here,” he admits. He turns to his companion. “Feuilly, this is Grantaire. He’s our other non-student member I was telling you about.”

“Ehh, I don’t know about member. ‘Hanger-on’ might be more accurate.” Grantaire extends a hand towards Feuilly. “Nice to meet you.”

Feuilly returns the handshake. He’s got an unexpectedly delicate grip for someone so chiseled. “You too,” he says, looking more relaxed now that he knows Grantaire isn’t about to remove him from the premises. As if he even could, Grantaire thinks -- this guy is taller than Enjolras and with twice the muscle mass. “Has Combeferre told you about the literacy project?”

“Not yet, but I’m guessing that’s why you two are here soliciting my boss?”

“Feuilly’s church is putting together a free book fair for some of the public elementary schools,” Combeferre explains. “We’ve been asking local bookstores about possible donations. I thought it would be a good thing for Les Amis to get involved with. Much lower profile than our last, ah, community outreach venture.”

Grantaire snorts. “Well I’d be impressed if you came up with something higher profile than making the papers for pissing off the entire county police department.”

“Enjolras could find a way,” Combeferre says, half rueful and half affectionate. “Anyway, Mabeuf was very helpful,” he adds with a grateful smile towards the man in question.

“It’s my pleasure,” Mabeuf assures him. “If I can do anything that helps some boy or girl out there discover a love for reading, then I’m happy to do it.”

“Oh yeah?” Grantaire asks. “Did you hook them up with a complete collection of National Audubon Society Field Guides?”

Mabeuf purses his lips, but his eyes are twinkling behind his glasses. “Don’t be cheeky.” He pats Combeferre once on the arm before retreating back to his tiny office in the rear of the shop. “If you need anything else, get in touch.”

“You love my cheekiness!” Grantaire calls after him. He looks at Combeferre seriously. “But for real, he didn’t actually donate a collection of field guides, did he? Because that’s definitely something he would do.”

Combeferre shakes his head in amusement. “He’s going to look through his inventory and see if there’s any writing supplies he can set aside -- notebooks, pens, that kind of thing. Schools need those as much as they need reading material. But apparently one of his vendors also works with a children’s book publisher, so he gave us their number and said he’d put in a good word for us.”

“Well, congratulations on your successful networking,” Grantaire says, heading to his spot behind the counter. “Don’t suppose I could interest either of you in some celebratory coffee?”

Combeferre shrugs and pulls his wallet out. “Sure, as long as we’re here, I’ll take a vanilla latte.”

“Coming right up. Feuilly, you want anything?”

Feuilly hesitates, gives the menu an assessing glance, then shakes his head. “I’m good, thanks.”

“You sure?” Combeferre asks him. “I’m buying.” A shadow flickers over Feuilly’s face. Grantaire’s spent enough time with Eponine to know what it looks like when someone doesn’t have spare money for little luxuries like coffee, but doesn’t want to take handouts either. Combeferre must realize it too, because he adds, “It’s good business, you know? It’s the least we can do in exchange for their support.”

Feuilly softens almost imperceptibly and gives the menu a second look. “Oh well, if it’s for the cause. I guess I’ll have an espresso.”

Grantaire ducks slightly behind the machine to hide his smile. Combeferre’s good with people -- Grantaire supposes that’s just another reason he and Enjolras complement each other so well. “Look at you, mister diplomacy,” he teases. “Are those the valuable life skills they teach in the poli sci curriculum?”

“I wouldn’t know, I’m an education major.” Combeferre lays down a $10 bill. “Keep the change.”

Grantaire tips an imaginary hat. “Obliged.” He passes them their drinks, noticing that Feuilly immediately takes a long sip of his despite his earlier objections.

Combeferre pats the counter in farewell. “We’ll see you tonight.” As they’re walking out of the door he turns to add over his shoulder, “You don’t want to be late to this one!”

“Okay mom!” Grantaire calls back. He had been conspicuously late last week thanks to missing the bus, and he figures Combeferre’s doing his duty as vice president/mother hen of the group. When the end of his shift comes, he fleetingly considers waiting for the later bus just to be obnoxious about it, but decides against it -- not worth spending an extra twenty minutes in the cold for the sake of keeping up his reputation as a smartass.

What happens at the beginning of the meeting, though, might have led Grantaire to suspect that Combeferre had ulterior motives and furthermore is possibly a bit of a jackass in his own right. Might have, if Grantaire had any brain cells to spare for anything other than processing the situation. He’s making predictions for tomorrow’s How To Get Away With Murder episode with Joly and Bossuet when the door to the lounge swings open and Enjolras walks in.

Wearing a dress. A dress with a tight-fitting bodice and a flared skirt, and as if that wasn’t bad enough, he’s also got on coral pink thigh-highs and black boots. Grantaire thinks his life should be flashing before his eyes because he’s obviously going to drop dead any second.

Enjolras’ entrance is met with a round of vigorous exclamations of “yaaas!” from the rest of the room. Courfeyrac, who came in with him as usual, is beaming.

“People, people, no photographs, please,” he says loudly, holding up his hands in an appeasing gesture. “A diva’s image is a precious commodity, she can’t go giving it away for free.” Enjolras and Combeferre exchange a glance before they each smack one of his hands out of the air in tandem.

“ _Honey_.” Bahorel stands up, hands on their hips. “All this time you’ve been dressing like a goddamn straight boy, and now we find out you’ve been holding out on us?!”

Enjolras shrugs. “I was in the mood for it today.”

“In the mood to get dressed up for your _boyfriend_ , you mean,” Courfeyrac says with a shit-eating grin.

Grantaire experiences an involuntary flash of dread before reminding himself that that door is closed regardless. Also, Enjolras is rolling his eyes.

“Boyfriend?” Joly leans forward in his chair. “Spill the beans, come on!”

“Ahhh, you haven’t met Feuilly, have you?” Courfeyrac says, clasping his hands delightedly. “He is a stud, and Enjolras wants to have his babies.”

“Everybody ignore Courfeyrac,” Enjolras says firmly.

“Oh really? So you’re going to stand here in sight of God and everyone and deny that you think he’s a stud?” Courfeyrac demands.

The corner of Enjolras’ mouth twitches. “I think it’s irrelevant because I gave up trying to make guys switch teams a long time ago.”

Before he can stop himself, Grantaire blurts out, “I would _love_ to see the guy who _you_ couldn’t convince to switch teams.” Enjolras looks over at him and squints, and Grantaire immediately wants to drop off the face of the earth. He also notes that Enjolras didn’t actually deny Courfeyrac’s statement, and he can’t help hoping that Feuilly won’t be sticking around long-term.

“Well, for the record,” Jehan declares, “I think Enjolras looks lovely, and he can wear whatever he wants, and attracting guys has nothing to do with it.”

“Thank you, Jehan,” Enjolras says. “But can we move on? We’re not about to spend this entire meeting discussing my wardrobe.”

“Okay, no, but we are going to spend the next five minutes of it getting you made up.” Bahorel whips a small clutch out of their bag. “There’s no way I’m gonna let you come in here wearing THAT and not make sure you have the face to match. Sit.”

Enjolras sighs and looks like he might protest, but Courfeyrac and Bahorel each grab one of his arms and steer him towards an empty chair. “Come ooooon!” Courfeyrac insists. “Feuilly’s not even here yet, we’ve got time.”

“The beauty industry is exploitative garbage,” Enjolras comments dryly, but he settles back into the chair anyway and crosses his legs. The movement causes his hemline to ride up and expose more of his thigh. Grantaire instantly tears his eyes away, because if he doesn’t he’s going to have a _fucking aneurysm, christ_.

It’s only then that he realizes Joly and Bossuet are both watching him and completely failing to hide their smirks. “You doing okay, R?” Joly asks innocently. “Need some fresh air?”

“I think he needs a cold shower,” Bossuet says in a stage whisper.

“I think you both need to shut the fuck up,” Grantaire mutters, folding his arms on the table and burying his face in them. Other than Eponine, he hasn’t spoken to anyone about his embarrassing crush on Enjolras (which, for the record, has only gotten stronger and more embarrassing over the past few weeks), but he supposes there’s no use trying to deny it to Joly and Bossuet now while he’s also trying to stop all his blood from rushing into his dick. At least he knows they’re not heartless enough to put him on blast to the rest of the group.

“Aww, look, he’s shy all of a sudden,” Bossuet laughs.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Grantaire says with as much dignity as he can muster, still face down on the tabletop. “My neck just got tired of holding my head up, so I’m giving it a break. It certainly has nothing to do with anything else going on in this room at this moment.”

“Whatever you say,” Joly replies, breaking off into a giggle.

“There’s no shame, man,” Bossuet says reassuringly. “I mean, speaking as your token straight friend, I can definitely understand where you’re coming from.”

“Marius is my token straight friend now. I’m disowning you.”

Grantaire raises his head when he hears the door open again. Feuilly’s standing in the entrance, bemused look on his face. “I hope I’m in the right place?”

“Oh wow, he _is_ a stud,” Joly whispers.

“Come on in, we’re multitasking,” Bahorel says cheerfully, continuing to apply Enjolras’ eyeliner.

Combeferre clears his throat. “Some of you have met him already,” he says, motioning Feuilly to join him at the front of the room, “but for anyone who hasn’t, this is Feuilly. I asked him here to talk about a project he’s been working on to provide reading materials for public schools.”

“It’s pretty self-explanatory,” Feuilly says. “I work in a public school, and the budget cuts this year were especially bad, so there’s a real shortage of materials for classrooms at the moment. The idea was to hold a sort of giant thrift sale where the representatives from every school get a certain amount of Monopoly money, or whatever, and they can use that to buy books and school supplies and so on. I pitched the idea to my parish, and they loved it, so we’ve been gathering donations and setting the whole thing up with the local elementary schools -- there’s four schools participating, and we’re still taking donations, but what we could really use help with is to finish sorting and pricing all the supplies, and staffing the actual event when it happens. Which is in about three weeks, by the way.”

Bahorel raises a hand. “You said your church is hosting this, but it’s gonna be secular, right? Like we’re not gonna be expected to hold hands in a circle and pray or anything? Cause no offense, but some of us don’t really fuck with Christianity like that.”

“No offense taken,” Feuilly assures them. “And yes, this is about the schools, not about any religion. I promise none of my congregation is going to try to convert you.”

“Fair enough.” Bahorel snaps the cap back on their mascara and hands Enjolras a compact. “There, see how hot you look? You’re welcome.”

Enjolras’ gaze lingers for just a second on his reflection before he snaps the compact shut and stands. “All right, so if everyone’s on board with this, we’ll spend the next two meetings at Feuilly’s church helping with preparations. Any objections?” When nobody voices any, he turns to Feuilly. “Right. So what we can get done right now that would help?”

“We do need ideas for some kind of background entertainment during the event,” Feuilly says. “The goal is to benefit the schools, but we also want it to be a community thing where the kids can come and have fun as well, so any kind of activities you guys could help with for ages six to ten would be great.”

“Bubbles,” Courfeyrac says instantly. “Get like twenty of those little soap bottles and some bubble wands, it’ll be a hit.”

“Are you saying that because you’d rather play with bubbles than do actual work?” Combeferre teases him, writing ‘bubbles’ on the whiteboard anyway.

“ _Maybe_ ,” Courfeyrac says loftily.

Everyone continues to toss out suggestions -- they’ve got hula hoops, musical chairs, beanbags (“although seriously, Marius, nobody’s played beanbags since like, 1950”), frisbee…

“Can we think of something more accessible that doesn’t involve potential bodily harm for small children?” Joly objects. “Most of this stuff is kind of physical.”

“I could do face painting,” Grantaire offers.

“Did Grantaire just _volunteer_ for something?” Courfeyrac exclaims. Grantaire flashes an obligatory middle finger while trying to ignore the way Enjolras is staring at him.

Combeferre puts face painting on the list, adds ‘crafts table?’ below it, then steps back. “This looks pretty good,” he says.

“Some of this stuff I can probably borrow from work,” Feuilly observes. “The rest of it we’d need to buy. Do you guys have a club budget?”

“We can take care of it,” Enjolras says. “Do you want to make a shopping trip this weekend?”

Feuilly frowns. “Weekends are tough for me -- I’ll text you my schedule later and we can figure it out.” Enjolras nods.

“What about trying to get donations from the university?” Jehan wonders. “Like notebooks and supplies and stuff? I bet the school store could spare some.”

Combeferre sighs. “It’s a nice thought, but seeing as the administrators aren’t our biggest fans, I doubt they’d be willing to help. Unless anyone can think of a different way to approach them?”

The question is met with silence, until Marius speaks up. “What about Cosette’s dad?” Everyone turns to look at him, and he continues. “He’d probably love to support this, and I can’t think of a single person on campus who doesn’t like him. If he went to the administration they might listen. I mean, as long as he didn’t say he heard about it from us.”

“Could you ask him about it?” Combeferre asks.

Marius hesitates. “I could… get Cosette to ask him about it.” Courfeyrac muffles his laughter behind a hand.

Enjolras, meanwhile, is shaking his head. “It’s completely ridiculous that we have to go through this kind of back-dooring in the first place,” he says angrily.

“Well, Enjolras, that’s what happens when you piss off The Man,” Bahorel points out.

“It’s ridiculous!” Enjolras insists. “They’re supposed to be educators, but they’d sit on their hands instead of helping underprivileged children get the education they deserve just because of something that wasn’t even --”

“Uh, hey, Enjolras?” Feuilly cuts him off. “I’m sure you mean well, but could you not co-opt my kids as a talking point for your campus politics?”

The room goes so quiet you could hear a flea cough. Enjolras is frozen like a deer in the headlights. “I wasn’t…”

“Especially if you’re going to attach buzzwords like ‘underprivileged’ to them,” Feuilly adds. Enjolras opens his mouth, then closes it, a faint blush rising on his cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” he finally manages. “I got angry, and it was bad wording.”

Feuilly shrugs. “And it’s great that you’re angry, but your anger doesn’t actually do anything to help the people you’re talking about. That’s all I’m saying.”

Enjolras bites his lips and nods, still looking chagrined. Grantaire has to resist the urge to laugh -- as hopelessly in love with Enjolras as he is, it’s still very satisfying to see him get taken down a peg. Okay, maybe Feuilly sticking around wouldn’t be the worst thing after all.

*

Despite Feuilly’s assurance that nobody was going to corner them and start proselytizing, Grantaire’s still a little uneasy when next Wednesday rolls around. He hasn’t been within a hundred feet of a church in years -- the only times he would ever go as a kid were when his father would force him, and that pretty much ended after Grantaire came out, so he doesn’t have very positive associations with the whole Christian thing. But Feuilly’s congregation turns out to be very friendly, very harmless, and more concerned with admiring Jehan’s haircut or trying to set Combeferre up with their daughter/niece/neighbor down the street who babysits for them. Plus there’s free pizza. By the time they finish up for the night, Grantaire’s fingertips are sore from peeling so many color-coded price tag stickers, but he leaves feeling pleasantly relieved and actually looking forward to next week.

He gets back to his apartment to find his door unlocked, and he panics for a second, but when he walks in the room it’s just Eponine lounging on his couch watching youtube videos of baby seals. “ _Finally_ ,” she says, setting his laptop on the table and stretching. “I hope your stupid cult meeting was worth it. Did Enjolras wear a corset this time?”

Grantaire kicks off his boots in the direction of his futon and takes a few heavenly seconds to imagine Enjolras in a corset. “Sadly, I doubt that would have gone over too well with the little old church ladies. They’re pretty chill but I don’t know if they’re that chill.” When Eponine scrunches up her face in confusion, he explains about the book fair.

“So you set foot in a church tonight and didn’t immediately burst into flames?”

“Technically it was the parish house, but yeah, I was surprised too.” Grantaire plops down next to her on the couch. “Everything okay at home? I figure you wouldn’t break into my apartment unless it was important.”

Eponine pulls a face. “I mean, ‘okay at home’ is all relative or whatever, but that’s not why I’m here. We have birthday plans to make!”

Grantaire groans and lets his head fall back against the sofa cushions. “God, it’s not even November yet.”

“Well Montparnasse said if you want any good drugs he needs some advance notice, so start thinking about it.”

“I don’t wanna start thinking about it,” Grantaire whines. “It’s just one year closer to the grave anyway.”

“Right, because 21 is exactly the age to start fixating on your own mortality.”

“Hey! I fixate on my own mortality every day of my life. Birthdays are just an excuse to be overly melodramatic about it.”

“Yes, but they’re also an excuse to get completely shitfaced and have people give you free stuff.”

“Okay, true,” Grantaire concedes. “It’s not like we need to do anything special though. As long as there’s liquor and noise and lots of people I’ll be set.”

Eponine clicks her tongue. “You’re so predictable. All right, liquor and noise and people it is. Good thing it’s on a Saturday this year. Oh yeah, Jehan said we could have it at his place.”

“Since when do you and Jehan plan my birthday parties behind my back?” Grantaire’s not complaining though -- he hasn’t actually seen Jehan’s apartment but he’s sure it’s got to be miles nicer than his own.

“Since we both knew you didn’t want to have it here, but you wouldn’t be able to bring yourself to ask anyone else to host it, so we went ahead and made the decision for you,” Eponine replies matter-of-factly.

“How thoughtful. Did you also take it upon yourselves to decide the drink selection and the guest list?”

“I would never take the honor of the drink selection away from you,” Eponine assures him. “And I can’t keep track of everyone you had drama with from last year, so no, we didn’t invite anyone yet. Besides Montparnasse, but I already told him he’s not allowed to bring any of his skeezy friends. Jehan’s assuming all your fellow cult members are invited though?”

Truthfully, Grantaire wasn’t sure whether he was going to invite Les Amis -- not because he didn’t want them there, but because he didn’t want to be disappointed when some of them (read: Enjolras) inevitably didn’t come. “I mean, I hadn’t thought about it, but if Jehan already told them…”

“That’s what I’m saying, he didn’t tell them. He wanted to make sure it was okay with you first.”

“Honestly? Montparnasse’s skeezy friends nonwithstanding, you guys can invite whoever you want. Like I said, the more people the better.” Grantaire supposes it would be pretty awkward if some of the group got invitations and not others. Besides, if he has no expectations of Enjolras coming, he can’t be disappointed, right?

Speaking of awkward, though… Grantaire almost doesn’t say what he’s thinking right now, but he decides it’s better to address it now than wait until it can’t be ignored any longer. “So uh, you know Marius might be there, right?”

Eponine is suddenly very preoccupied with her fingernails. “I figured as much.”

“Okay, so if he is, you know there’s a good chance Cosette will be with him, right?”

“Thank you for spelling that out for me like I’m five,” Eponine says curtly. “Yes, Grantaire, I know. What’s your point?”

_Jesus_. “There’s no point, I just wanted to make sure you were okay with it.”

“Well it doesn’t really matter what I’m okay with, does it?” Eponine replies, still not making eye contact. “I’m not going to tell you who you can’t invite to your own party.”

Grantaire loves Eponine like a sister, but he really wants to yank all her hair out right about now. “Could you not be a bitch about this, please?”

“Ex _cuse_ me?” She’s looking at him now, and she’s got that glint in her eyes which means she’s about three seconds away from going for his throat, but Grantaire’s been putting up with her bullshit about this whole situation for too long now and he’s sick of it.

“Look, I don’t know why you’re so hellbent on holding this grudge for the rest of your natural life, and any rational person would realize that Marius has free will and he made a choice, and a rational person would live with that, but if you don’t wanna be rational then fine! Whatever! But I don’t think it’s too much to ask that you not ruin my birthday because you couldn’t stop being bitter for one night.”

Eponine stands up abruptly. “From the bottom of my heart, Grantaire? Go fuck yourself.” She stalks over to the door and starts pulling her boots on.

Grantaire can’t believe this. “Oh what, that’s it? You’re really gonna storm out like a child right now? Thanks for proving my point.”

“You don’t know what the _fuck_ you’re talking about,” Eponine hisses, and that throws Grantaire off, because when Eponine gets mad she gets loud, he’s never seen this kind of quiet fury from her. “And I am _not_ having this fucking conversation with you.” Before he can respond, she’s gone, slamming the door behind her so hard it sends a sprinkle of dust down from the ceiling.

Grantaire doesn’t even know how to react. “Unbelievable,” he says out loud to no one, and then gets up to grab a beer from the fridge, because he needs one after that mess. Obviously he hit some kind of hidden nerve. He has no idea _what_ though, and he feels a flicker of guilt, but he chases it away with a vicious swig of beer. _She’s the one being an asshole here, not you_. Let her sulk about it if she wants. He’s not going to let it weigh on him. He’s not.

 


	5. Chapter 5

Two days later, Eponine still isn’t responding to his texts. Grantaire isn’t sure if it’s because she’s ignoring him or because it’s the end of the month and her phone is out of minutes -- either option seems equally likely. He could just suck it up and go try to talk to her in person, but the prospect of her slamming the door in his face is not something he wants to deal with.

So Halloween night approaches, and the closer it gets the shittier Grantaire feels. Ever since he and Eponine became friends he’s spent Halloween with her and her siblings. They would take Gavroche trick or treating, even though he insists he doesn’t need an escort (he’s right, but it’s an excuse to get away from parents), and then end the night pigging out on his candy and laughing at cheesy special effects from old horror movies. But it looks like this year Grantaire’s going to spend it alone in his apartment drinking cheap liquor and wondering how he always manages to make all his friends hate him.

Mabeuf closed the shop for the holiday, which makes things worse, because it means Grantaire doesn’t even have work to distract him from spiraling into negativity. He wakes up around noon as usual, spends a couple hours lying around day drinking and feeling sorry for himself, then falls back asleep just because he’s too tired of existing in his current state. By the time he wakes up again it’s nearly 9:00. He’s disoriented and his head hurts and he wants to get the fuck out of his apartment before he loses his fucking mind, but he doesn’t have anywhere (anyone) to go to.

He could drag himself to a bar, but then he’d just be drinking alone surrounded by people who are actually enjoying their night, which is really no better than drinking alone in his apartment. Finally he pushes his anxiety down long enough for him to text Bahorel ( _bored af. do you have anything fun going on??_ ), but the minutes tick by and his phone doesn’t buzz. When he checks it again he sees that the message isn’t even marked as being read.

_Perfect_ , he thinks, and takes it as a sign to abandon chasers and start drinking the vodka straight from the bottle. He almost tries Courfeyrac next before he remembers that these days Courfeyrac is practically attached to Combeferre and Enjolras at the hip, and the last thing he needs right now is to be in the same room as Enjolras when he’s an emotional train wreck with no filter. He scrolls restlessly through his contacts, looking for someone, anyone, who wouldn’t think it was weird and annoying if he drunkenly texted them in a desperate attempt to make last-minute plans.

_You **are** weird and annoying_ , the voice in the back of his head reminds him. _No wonder nobody wants to do anything with you ever, all you ever do is act out like the immature attention seeking asshole you are. It’s so pathetic. You might as well do everyone a favor and never leave this room again._

Grantaire wants to scream, or kick a hole in the wall, or crack open his skull and tear his own brain out so he doesn’t have to put up with it trying to kill him anymore. He settles for hurling his phone onto his bed in frustration.

And then, as if the universe was waiting for him to get fed up before it acted, the phone starts to ring. It’s Jehan. “Hey!” he says when Grantaire picks up. “So I don’t know if you already have plans tonight, but I’m on my way to campus and I could swing by and get you if you don’t have anything better to do.”

Grantaire could kiss him right now. “I could kiss you right now. I mean, in a totally platonic way, of course. Just a platonic kiss between friends.”

Jehan giggles. “Are you drunk already?”

“Me? No. No way. This is nothing. This is tipsy at best. I just talk a lot when I’m tipsy. Well, I talk a lot in general, but especially when I’m tipsy. I’m doing it again. Fuck. Um, where did you say you were?”

“Oh my god, you’re a mess,” Jehan says fondly, still laughing. “I’m like three minutes away. I’ll text you when I’m outside.”

“Great. Awesome. See you then.” Grantaire hangs up and lets a wave of relief wash over him. He’s getting out of this apartment. Whether he’ll make it through the rest of the night without making a total ass of himself remains to be seen, but he’s _getting out of this fucking apartment_. He changes clothes quickly, then grabs his jacket and vodka and goes to wait for Jehan outside. It’s chilly, but he much prefers the fresh air over spending one more second in his room going stir-crazy.

Apparently Jehan is one of those people who says they’re three minutes away when it’s really more like ten, but Grantaire doesn’t really care at this point. When he sees the Civic pull up it’s all he can do not to sprint over to it.

“Where’s your costume?” Jehan demands when Grantaire opens the car door.

Grantaire make a vague gesture with his bottle. “What, functional alcoholism isn’t scary enough for you?” He slides into the front seat and gives Jehan’s outfit a once-over: pink polo shirt, a backwards baseball cap with what looks like half of a crown taped to the front of it, and one of those fake strap on beards. “Okay, I have no clue what you’re supposed to be.”

“Wait, wait, wait.” Jehan reaches into the backseat and pulls out a guitar with a cardboard cutout of a trident head attached to the end of it. Grantaire shakes his head, still not getting it. “Broseidon king of the brocean!”

Grantaire stares at him for a second then erupts into ugly laughter. “Fucking hell!” he gasps. “That’s funny. You need like, a PBR or something though, you know? Like some stereotypical frat boy beer.”

“Sadly, some of us don’t have fake IDs,” Jehan says, making sure his guitar is safely in the back before reversing out of the parking lot.

“That IS sad. It’s a terrible way to live. I wouldn’t recommend it. Not that I would recommend drinking PBR either, but we all make sacrifices for our art. Anyway I’m sure we can find you some on campus. Do we know where the parties are at or are we just gonna wander until we find one? God, you know, that’s the most inconvenient thing about not being in college. Like in the real world you can’t just go around knocking on random people’s doors on a Friday night -- well I mean, tonight you can, obviously, but they’re just gonna give you candy, not invite you in for booze and hallucinogens. I really do miss it sometimes.” Grantaire pauses for a deep breath and looks over at Jehan. “So?”

“So what?”

“So, do we have a destination on campus or are we wandering?”

Jehan adopts what looks like a faux-thoughtful face (it’s kind of hard to tell underneath the beard). “No, I don’t think we have any set destination. We’re much like your drunken monologues in that respect.”

Grantaire laughs loudly and takes another gulp of vodka. “Hah! Son, if you think this is drunk, wait until I _really_ get going.” He leans his head against the window, watching the lights outside zip past and relishing the cool glass against his skin. The night is still mostly young, and he’s pretty much guaranteed to do some stupid shit before the end of it, but at least he’s not trapped in his apartment hating his life. Anything else he can handle.

*

They still haven’t decided where to go first by the time they reach campus -- Grantaire’s fairly certain the party dorms haven’t moved since he was here last year, but those are in the upperclassmen buildings for the most part, which are a good fifteen minute walk away after they’ve parked. The frat houses are even further. Besides, it’s not quite 10:00, and Grantaire hates showing up to a party that hasn’t hit its stride yet. And Jehan hasn’t even pregamed at all.

Apparently though, Joly and Bossuet’s dorm is right next to the parking lot. Jehan leads the way up to their room and knocks. “It’s open!” someone yells from inside.

Grantaire’s seen some pretty sweet dorm setups, but the room he walks into is definitely his new favorite. The furniture is all pushed up against the walls -- including the bed frames, which have been completely disassembled -- and every open square foot of floor space is covered in throw pillows. There’s dozens of them, all different sizes and colors, so if you squint a little (or if you’re inebriated) the floor looks like a giant patchwork quilt. A couple pale blue bedsheets are tacked to the ceiling, creating the effect of a tent canopy, and beneath them are strands of christmas lights criss-crossing the breadth of the room. The colored glow is the only light in the room besides the muted glare of the television from atop one of the dressers. The whole thing feels like a carnival fortune-teller’s tent, or possibly an opium den. Grantaire’s in love.

The two mattresses are opposite the television, separated by one of the two desks that come with all the dorm rooms. Joly and Bossuet are sitting on one, and the other is occupied by Marius and Courfeyrac, the latter of whom points excitedly at Jehan when he enters the room. “Broseidon!” he exclaims.

“What?” the other three people in the room say in unison. Bossuet adds, “Did you know what he was supposed to be before he walked in here?”

“Nope, I’m just a master at guessing costumes. Look, I’ll prove it: Grantaire’s dressed as functional alcoholism.”

Grantaire scoffs. “That doesn’t prove anything, it’s the most obvious costume here.”

“Ohhh, it’s a trident!” Joly says, obviously just realizing the nuances of Jehan’s getup. “Why didn’t you use a lacrosse stick? I feel like that would have worked better.”

“Yeah, probably, but I didn’t have a lacrosse stick lying around,” Jehan answers. “Besides, this way I can be that douche who breaks out his guitar at the party and starts playing Wonderwall.”

“If you start playing Wonderwall I will take that guitar and beat you with it.” Grantaire drops to the floor in between the two “beds”, rolling around in the pillows. “I fucking love this room, by the way. I’m moving in. Did every pillow in the world come here to die?”

“Just all the ones from every thrift store in a five mile radius,” Bossuet says. “Sit down, Jehan! Stay a while! We’re playing The Nightmare Before Christmas drinking game.”

“There’s a drinking game for that?” Jehan asks.

“There is now,” Courfeyrac tells him. “Okay, the rules are you have to take a drink every time they start singing, every time Jack makes a funny face, every time Sally detaches one of her body parts, and every time someone says ‘pumpkin king’ or ‘Sandy Claws.’ And any time you see something that lowkey traumatized you as a child you have to finish the rest of your drink.”

Grantaire hoists his vodka bottle into the air, which is still two-thirds full. “Is that a challenge?”

“We do have cups,” Joly offers. “And there’s Coronas in the fridge.”

“Cups are for weaklings,” Grantaire declares, but he does get up to grab beers for himself and Jehan. The movie’s only about fifteen minutes in, so it’s not like anyone’s drunk yet, but he still insists on Jehan taking a shot of vodka in the name of catching up with the rest of the room. It turns out they all know the words to all the songs (except Marius, who has actually never seen the movie before and is highly disturbed by the fact that this is meant to be a children’s film), and their singing gets increasingly louder and more raucous as the film progresses. There is a bit of difficulty when they reach “Kidnap The Sandy Claws” and they’re trying to sing along while also drinking every time the chorus comes around. Eventually they resolve the problem by all chugging a beer and then starting the song over -- by which point they’re cracking up too much to sing properly anyway, but that’s irrelevant.

They’re just at the part when Jack’s sleigh gets shot out of the sky when somebody’s phone starts ringing. “Please silence your cell phones during the movie!” Joly and Bossuet shout at the same time, then collapse onto each other, laughing their heads off.

Courfeyrac manages to locate the remote and pauses the movie before answering the call. “Hello darling! No, I’m in Joly and Bossuet’s room. What’s up?” He listens for a moment, then starts snickering. “I _knew_ it! I knew this would happen one day. Okay, but first tell me I’m right and you’re wrong. Oh, this is so fulfilling. Well just come over here, we’re watching a movie. There’s only like twenty minutes left. All right. See you soon.” He blows a kiss into the phone and hangs up, still cackling.

“What’s so funny?” Marius asks him.

“Combeferre and Enjolras locked themselves out of their room,” Courfeyrac says gleefully and cackles even harder. “That’s what they get for spending Halloween night in the fucking library, serves them right.”

Grantaire, realizing that this means Enjolras is going to walk into the room any minute, thinks _fuck it_ and takes a surreptitious pull from his vodka bottle. He figures that a) he’s having too much fun right now to get anxious about it, b) everyone else is drunk too, so hopefully any stupid thing he might say will seem less ridiculous by comparison, and c) at least he’s been warned in advance so he’s somewhat prepared.

What he was not prepared for was for Enjolras to be in costume, because really, what’s the point of getting dressed up for Halloween if you’re going to waste it doing schoolwork? But when the door swings open a few minutes later Enjolras walks in dressed in a hospital gown with a red blanket draped across his shoulders. Grantaire doesn’t think, just reacts. He lurches to his feet so he can then drop melodramatically down onto one knee -- because if he’s going to make a fool of himself, he’s going to do it with panache, damn it -- and claps one hand to his chest while extending the other towards Enjolas. He assumes a booming voice and recites, “American prophet, tonight you become American eye that pierceth dark! American heart all hot for truth! The true great vocalist!” Then he drops the posturing and adds in his regular voice, “I really hope you’re supposed to be Prior Walter or else that just made no sense.”

Combeferre gives him a round of applause with an entirely straight face. Enjolras looks like he’s struggling between amusement and disbelief. “You know, you’re the first person all day who got it right.”

“What?!” Grantaire exclaims, spinning around to face the rest of the group. “Right, that’s it, every queer person in this room who hasn’t seen Angels In America is getting their membership revoked.”

Courfeyrac throws his hands in the air. “Oh sure, gang up on me just because I don’t feel like watching yet another depressing gay movie.”

“It’s not depressing!” Enjolras insists.

“You said he has AIDS, how is that not depressing?”

“Yes, but he doesn’t die though!” Enjolras huffs in exasperation. “The whole point is that he wants to keep surviving and keep having worthwhile experiences even though he’s living with AIDS. It’s about finding hope and taking the good with the bad. It’s a happy ending.”

Courfeyrac is not convinced. “Look, I’m just sick of every gay protagonist getting AIDS or being murdered or beaten or raped or what the fuck ever. So you can watch whatever you want, and I’ll be over here watching The Birdcage and Imagine Me And You for the hundredth time.”

“Okay, but tell us how you really feel,” Grantaire says. Courfeyrac makes a face at him, then tugs at the feather boa Combefere is wearing when the other boy sits next to him on the bed.

“I’m liberating this, by the way. Tell Bahorel they’re gonna have to fight me if they want it back.”

“I would probably pay money to see that,” Combeferre replies.

Grantaire wasn’t even paying attention to Combeferre when he came in -- tunnel vision is a common affliction with him whenever Enjolras is in the room. But now he notices the costume. “Oh my god, is Combeferre Belize? That’s so cute. I really admire a man who’s secure enough in his heterosexuality to go around in feathers and glitter.”

“Okay, movie’s resuming, grab your beverages,” Bossuet announces. Enjolras steps over Courfeyrac’s legs and sits down in between him and Grantaire, who barely has time to process before Enjolras leans over and whispers, “You know you were quoting a different scene.”

Grantaire leans in closer, unable to resist, and whispers back, “You wanna go, smartass? ‘Let any being on whom fortune smiles creep away to death before that last dreadful daybreak when all your ravaging returns to you.’ I watched that movie on a loop in high school, don’t test me.” Enjolras actually _laughs_ , and Grantaire thinks he could listen to that sound for the rest of his life. It takes him more effort than he cares to admit to look away from Enjolras’ face and back to the tv screen. There’s a ball of warmth nestled snugly between his ribs that has nothing to do with the alcohol, and he’s screwed, he’s so screwed, but at least right now in this moment things are as close to perfect as he can imagine.

Not even the quintessential Disney ending can convince Marius that this is actually a children’s movie. “That was horrifying,” he insists. “When they opened him up and he was all bugs inside? Who THINKS of that?!”

“You were deprived as a child,” Jehan informs him.

“Right,” Grantaire says, getting to his feet -- he can feel himself sway a little bit, and he drains the rest of his third beer in defiance. “I am of the firm opinion that there’s been way too much sitting around for one night, so I’m gonna go out and make some questionable life choices. Who’s coming? Joly, I think as a future doctor you have a professional responsibility to make sure I drink water at some point between now and 2am, just saying.”

Joly shakes his head disapprovingly, but whatever he’s about to respond with is cut off by the door banging open. “WAR TROPHIES!” Bahorel shouts triumphantly, upending the garbage bag they’re holding. What looks like an avalanche of feathers tumbles out -- closer inspection reveals it to be a mass of “Indian” headdresses like the kind you would buy at Party City if you were one of those people who views Halloween as an opportunity to show off what a racist you are.

“Holy shit!” Courfeyrac says. “You hit the jackpot tonight, huh?”

“Oh yes, the ignorant white girls were out in flocks,” Bahorel says. “We broke a couple boyfriends’ noses, too,” they add, gesturing to Feuilly, who had the good sense to shut the door before an RA could come past and see the underage drinking going on.

“I don’t think I actually broke anyone’s anything,” Feuilly clarifies.

“No, you just went around putting everyone in chokeholds like it was your job!” Bahorel laughs. “Oh man, I wish you guys could have seen it. He’s fucking scary, this one.”

Enjolras reaches over and picks up one of the headdresses, holding it between finger and thumb like it’s something dead he found on the ground. “Is this how you always spend your Halloweens?”

“Goddamn right,” Bahorel says proudly. “Hit up a party, publicly shame every asshole wearing one of these, snatch the shit off their fucking heads until we get thrown out, move on to the next one.”

“So that’s why you were too busy to answer your phone all night?” Jehan asks. “I mean, as long as you had a good reason.”

“Oh, my phone got smashed in the first bar fight,” Bahorel says, waving a hand carelessly. They cast their eyes around the room and their face suddenly lights up. “Wait a minute, is this like Les Amis party central? How perfect is this?” Grantaire notices for the first time that yes, all the members of Les Amis (if he’s counting himself as a member) are in the room. Bahorel starts scooping the headdresses back into the bag. “Okay, here’s what’s gonna happen. I’m gonna gather these back up, and then we are all gonna drive down to the river and have a fucking bonfire and roast these pieces of trash.”

“Fucking A!” Grantaire says enthusiastically.

Combeferre sighs. “Do we have a choice?”

“Nope!” Bahorel says, pointing at him ominously. “The universe has already chosen for you. The universe has conspired to put all of us in the same place tonight for a reason, and this is that reason.”

“Let’s do it!” Courfeyrac agrees, jumping to his feet. “Think of it this way,” he adds to Combeferre, “you can’t get back in your room without me, and I’m not about to miss out on an illegal bonfire, and anyway we’ve all been drinking so _obviously_ you have to be the designated driver, because you’re the most disgustingly responsible person I know and you wouldn’t let us put all our lives in danger, right?”

Combeferre sighs again and looks over at Enjolras. “He does make several compelling arguments,” Enjolras points out.

Bahorel straightens up and flings the bag back over their shoulder. “All right, come on everyone! Pontmercy, that means you too!”

Marius doesn’t look too excited, but the momentum in the room seems to sway him and he follows the rest of them outside without complaint. Grantaire ends up in the backseat of Jehan’s car with Marius and Courfeyrac, Jehan’s guitar lying across their laps. Combeferre is driving, and it’s not until after they’ve pulled out of the parking lot that they realize nobody in the car actually knows where they’re going, but they tail Feuilly’s car the whole way there and manage not to get separated in traffic.

They’re nearly to the city limits when they turn off onto a side road that snakes around and eventually brings them underneath an overpass. They pull off to the shoulder and leave the cars there (“Are we sure this is safe?” “Come on Marius, live a little for once.”). Bahorel takes a duffel bag out of the trunk of Feuilly’s car, then leads them all down the slope heading away from the other side of the road until they reach the river. It’s not cold enough to freeze yet, and the moonlight glinting off the dark rushing water looks eerie and distorted and very Halloween appropriate.

“Should we gather sticks or something?” Jehan asks.

Bahorel scoffs. “As if you think I wouldn’t come prepared.” They set down the duffel bag and start pulling out kindling.

“Jesus fucking Christ on a bicycle!” Courfeyrac shrieks as a icy gust of wind buffets them from across the water. “Okay Bahorel, I’m gonna need that fire ASAP before my legs freeze off.”

“Calm down, California,” Bahorel replies, continuing to work at the same pace.

Grantaire offers Courfeyrac a swig of his vodka. “There you go, that’ll warm you up some.”

“I’m not going to say we told you to pick a warmer costume…” Combeferre says airily.

“But we did tell you to pick a warmer costume,” Enjolras finishes.

“Wait, that’s a costume?” Feuilly asks. “It looks pretty much like how you usually dress.”

Courfeyrac strikes a pose with his hands on his hips. “OBVIOUSLY it’s a costume, don’t you recognize the leggings? I’m Brendan Jordan!”

Feuilly stares for a second, then the lightbulb goes off. “Ohh, is that the kid from the viral video? I didn’t know he had a name.”

Marius throws his hands into the air in exasperation. “How does everyone know who this kid is except me?”

“Because you’re an old _lolo_ who doesn’t understand social media,” Courfeyrac says, patting him on the head fondly.

Joly is hovering anxiously over Bahorel’s shoulder as smoke begins to rise from the tinder. “You’ve done this before, right? I brought burn cream just in case.”

“Do I look like I’ve done this before?” Bahorel retorts. “I may be a city kid but my grandma raised me right.” They carefully fold the tinder over and hold it by the edge before blowing on it. A flame springs to life and Bahorel sets it down quickly in the center of the kindling. “Hah! Everyone come get around this before the wind blows it out.”

“Oh thank God,” Courfeyrac says, hurrying over. Bahorel continues to add tinder and blow at the base of the sticks, and pretty soon there’s a decent-sized campfire crackling away.

Feuilly holds up the garbage bag. “Come on, let’s take care of these before someone notices us.” They pass the bag around the circle, everyone taking turns tossing the cheap headdresses into the fire and watching them blacken and shrivel up one by one.

“There’s something very gratifying about this,” Enjolras remarks. He looks even more angelic than usual in the glow of the firelight.

“Right?” Bahorel grins at him. “You should come with next year, ripping them off people’s heads is even better.”

Jehan slips away for a moment to retrieve his guitar from the car. He sits on the ground next to Grantaire and starts strumming it idly. “Free Bird!” Bossuet calls out.

“You two are on some white boy parody shit right now,” Feuilly asserts, and the whole group bursts into laughter. Grantaire feels like he could float away on it, and it strikes him how amazingly, overwhelmingly secure he feels right now. The fire is warm on his face and the alcohol is warm beneath his skin and he’s surrounded by nine of his very favorite people on this whole crazy earth. On impulse he drops to the ground and topples sideways until he’s lying with his head pillowed on Jehan’s thigh, listening to the vibrations of the guitar hum through the other boy’s body.

“You okay, Grantaire?” he hears Joly ask. Grantaire thinks about how less than four hours ago he was shut in his apartment convincing himself that all his friends hated him and he was going to die alone. It seems so alien now, like something he was watching take place from outside himself.

“I’m great,” he replies. “I’m really, really ridiculously great. Seriously. You wouldn’t believe how great I am right now.”

Jehan chuckles and bends over to plant a kiss on Grantaire’s forehead before he resumes playing. Grantaire closes his eyes and listens to the gentle music and the conversation carry on around him, and thinks that if this was somehow his last night on earth he’d die happier than he’s ever been.

 


	6. Chapter 6

Grantaire ends the night crashing on Joly and Bossuet’s floor, along with Jehan, the both of them too wasted and exhausted to get back to their own beds. Grantaire has never been more thankful for the fact that he doesn’t work weekends. He sleeps like a rock until Bossuet shakes him awake to inform him that it’s past time to hit up the grocery store and take advantage of all the half-priced leftover candy. They spend a lazy afternoon intermittently hotboxing Jehan’s car and satiating their munchies with the giant pile of chocolate they’ve obtained, while Joly occasionally looks up from the biology textbooks he’s poring over to remind them to eat something green with dinner, _please_. Jehan, bless him, lets Grantaire bum Marlboros off of him all day as well as a meal swipe at the dining hall before he drives him home, and Grantaire falls asleep that night still riding the emotional high of the last 24 hours.

His perception of how he fits in among the group shifts after that, and he slowly starts to let himself believe they more or less like having him around. It’s a new sensation for him, and a fragile one, and he’s resolved not to fuck it up. So when the big day of the book fair arrives, he drags his unwilling body out of bed at the ungodly hour of 8am to make himself presentable and bike over to Feuilly’s church to help set up.

The plan was to squeeze everything inside if it turned out to be too cold on the day, but they got lucky with the weather -- even though it’s a week into November, the temperature is unseasonably warm, so they can spread out between the interior of the parish house and the grassy courtyard connecting it to the church. Carting tables and boxes around works up a sweat, and soon everyone who was wearing a jacket sheds it. “Thank you, global warming,” Courfeyrac sighs.

“You won’t be thanking it in fifty years when the west coast is underwater and you have to move to Kansas,” Combeferre reminds him.

Bossuet is amazed at the massive amounts of food the church ladies are currently organizing on the tables at the far end of the courtyard. “They really made all that just for today?”

“ _Someone_ clearly didn’t have any black friends growing up,” Joly laughs.

Jehan plops down in the chair where Grantaire is setting up his face painting station. “Can you paint me a skull?” he asks excitedly.

“You mean like on your face? I think that might terrify the children a little bit.” Grantaire sits across from him and grabs a brush. “How about a cat?”

Jehan rolls his eyes. “That’s boring. Fine, can you do an underwater scene?”

Grantaire pauses for a second and squints, imagining the logistics in his head. “Sure, hold still.” He dips the brush in the blue paint and starts dabbing at Jehan’s face. It’s been months since he attempted any kind of art, even something this basic, but the motions come back to him with less effort than he expected. He does his best to silence the portion of his brain that wants to be critical of every brush stroke -- _it’s not like you’re trying to be the next Seurat here, chill out_.

“You should put a shark like, right in the middle of his forehead,” comes a familiar voice from behind him. “And have it eating a swimmer.”

Grantaire finishes the trail of bubbles he was filling in before turning in his chair. “So you think you can just show up and give opinions that nobody asked for after you’ve been avoiding me for weeks?”

“Avoiding what now?” Gavroche defiantly flicks the side of Grantaire’s head with a finger. “You’re the one who skipped out on Halloween.”

“Yeah, tell it to your sister.” Grantaire swivels back around and adds a few strands of seaweed to Jehan’s cheek before offering him the mirror. “How’s that look?”

Jehan lets out a slight gasp and turns his head to get a better look at the line of tiny multi-colored fish making their way along the slope of his cheekbone. “I love it!” he exclaims. Grantaire knows it’s silly, but he can’t help the little surge of pride he feels even over something as insignificant as a bit of face painting. Jehan leaves to go man one of the tables, and Gavroche helps himself to the empty chair.

“You could have come by anyway, you know,” he says. “Ponine would’ve gotten over it.”

Grantaire grimaces. “I don’t know. She was pretty pissed at me last time we talked. I just didn’t want to deal with it.”

“She’ll get over it,” Gavroche repeats with offhand confidence. “She’s never this mad unless she knows she’s wrong.”

“Yeah, maybe.” Grantaire finishes cleaning off the brush and wipes it dry with a rag. “So what are you doing here?”

Gavroche motions towards the plate in his other hand. “Like I was gonna miss out on free food,” he says, popping a biscuit into his mouth. Then he seems to notice something past Grantaire’s shoulder and his eyes widen. “Oooh, busted.”

Grantaire, confused, looks around to see Feuilly walking their way. “Gavroche,” he says when he reaches them, in the tone someone might use when their dog has just peed on the carpet.

“Hi Feuilly,” Gavroche says cheerfully, with a wave and a mouthful of biscuit.

Feuilly purses his lips like he wants to smile but he’s got a stern game face to maintain. “When’s the last time I saw you?”

“You mean other than five seconds ago when you saw me and then came over here?”

“Thursday,” Feuilly says. “I saw you Thursday at lunch time, but then I didn’t see you after school let out. Why’s that?”

Gavroche makes a big show of pretending to ponder the question. “Family emergency? Urgent meeting with the president? Alien abduction? Stop me if you hear something you like.”

Feuilly sighs. “Gavroche, you can’t show up just to get a free lunch and then skip out for the rest of the day. You’ve been doing good this year and --”

Gavroche holds up a hand to cut him off. “I know, I know. I’m a smart kid, and I shouldn’t waste my potential, and you’re not mad, just disappointed, because you don’t want me to mess things up for myself. That was a good talk. I’m glad we had it. I feel so much better.”

“Don’t be a shithead,” Feuilly says flatly. Gavroche doubles over laughing.

“See, this is why you’re my favorite,” he says. “You don’t sugarcoat. I respect that.”

“How about you demonstrate some of that respect by not missing any school this week, then?”

Gavroche heaves a long-suffering sigh. “Only for you, Feuilly. It’s gonna be hard though. You know, my teachers, they just don’t get how to connect with us kids the way you do.”

“Your flattery is duly noted,” Feuilly assures him.

Grantaire has been watching this exchange with no small amount of amusement. “Feuilly, you work at Jefferson? Small world. Hey, next time he cuts class let me know, I’ll kick his ass for you.”

“You’ll have to catch me first,” Gavroche retorts, kicking Grantaire’s ankle. “He’s my brother,” he explains when Feuilly looks confused. “Not by blood or anything, but in my house that’s the only kind of family that matters.”

“I’d say it’s the only kind of family anywhere that matters,” Feuilly agrees. “Grantaire, do you have everything you need?”

“Yeah, I’m all set, thanks.”

Feuilly nods and points a finger at Gavroche. “Monday!” he says warningly.

Gavroche springs out of his chair and executes a full military salute, clicking his heels together. Feuilly rolls his eyes but he's chuckling as he walks away.

“The fact that you know literally everybody should really not surprise me at this point,” Grantaire comments.

“What can I say? I run this town,” Gavroche says nonchalantly, before biting into a chicken wing.

The face painting turns out to be a big hit with the kids. Grantaire does his best to take requests, and Gavroche’s presence ends up coming in handy, equipped as he is with an extensive knowledge of comic book characters. Grantaire’s not sure he would have been able to paint a convincing Spiderman mask otherwise.

There is this one kid who he notices hanging around -- he never actually gets close, but he’ll linger a little ways off before disappearing, only to show up again a few minutes later. He does this a few times, then finally when there’s nobody in line and Gavroche has drifted off to do who knows what, he shuffles up to the table, not making eye contact.

“Hi buddy,” Grantaire says as gently as possible, figuring the kid is shy. “Do you want to get your face painted?”

The boy nods, then looks up hesitantly. He taps a finger on his cheek. “Can you paint a pegacorn?”

“...Well, I don’t know what that is, but if you tell me what it looks like I could try?”

“Like a unicorn, but it’s got wings.”

 _Oh, duh_. “Sure I can paint a pegacorn.” Grantaire grabs the smaller brush and motions for the boy to sit. “What color do you want it?”

The boy squirms in his seat for a moment, then says quietly, “Can it be pink?”

Grantaire feels a pang, but he smiles widely. “Of course it can be pink,” he says as if it’s such an obvious answer. “Pink’s a great color.” He doesn’t know why he keeps talking as he works, other than that he can’t stand the thought of this kid having to work up that much courage just to ask for a little bit of pink paint on his face. “Someone probably told you pink is for girls, right?”

“Yeah,” the boy confirms in a small voice.

“That seems kind of silly to me,” Grantaire says. “I mean, who decided that?”

“...Nobody _decided_ it,” the boy replies once he figures Grantaire was seriously asking. “It’s just how it is.”

“Actually, I’ll tell you a secret,” Grantaire says conspiratorially. “It’s not just how it is. Pink used to be a boy’s color too, until about seventy years ago when people started to say it should just be for girls.”

“Really?” the boy asks. He sounds doubtful but he sits up a little straighter.

“Yep. That’s a fact. You can look it up. I know seventy years sounds like a really long time, but I bet at least one of your grandparents was alive back then. You should ask them.”

“My grandma took me shopping on my birthday,” the boy says, speaking carefully so that his face doesn’t move too much and mess up Grantaire’s progress. “She got me a pink jersey, but my dad wouldn’t let me wear it. He made her take it back.”

“Oh yeah?” Grantaire traces the outline of a wing. “When I was about your age, I wanted to take dance classes, but my dad wouldn’t let me do that either. He said the other boys would make fun of me. He didn’t understand that I _wanted_ to be different. I think he was just trying to protect me, because it’s hard being different sometimes, but it’s a whole lot harder to pretend to be someone you’re not. I don’t know if my dad ever learned that, but I really hope yours does. You’ve still got lots of time to teach him.” He fills in the tail with one quick sweep of the brush and holds up the mirror so the boy can see. “There, I think that looks awesome. What do you think?”

The brilliance of the boy’s smile answers the question for him. He stares at the mirror for a long time, clearly not wanting to stop admiring his reflection, then chirps out a “Thank you!” and impulsively seizes Grantaire in a hug. Grantaire feels the pang in his heart again, but in a good way this time, relatively speaking.

The boy releases him after a second and scampers off. Grantaire leans back in his chair, feeling content, when he hears someone clear their throat from behind him. He turns around to see Enjolras with a plate of food.

“I, uh, didn’t know if you’d had a break yet, and the food was almost gone, so.” He holds the plate out. “Didn’t want you to miss out. I wasn’t sure what you liked, so I just got you a little bit of everything.”

“Well, luckily I will eat just about anything.” Grantaire had been too distracted to realize how hungry he was -- the same thing would happen when he used to paint for real -- so he takes the food and immediately digs in.

Enjolras stays where he is, a strange look on his face, and Grantaire gets the feeling he’d been standing there for a while. “You’re good with kids,” he says finally.

“You sound surprised.” Grantaire shrugs. “I like kids. They haven’t had enough time to really internalize all the bullshit that we have.”

Enjolras cocks his head. “So is that why you volunteered to do this? Because you like kids?”

“Or I just couldn’t pass up the opportunity to have you hand-serve me delicious soul food,” Grantaire deadpans, fluttering his lashes extravagantly for good measure. That earns him a signature eye-roll.

For a second it seems like Enjolras is going to ask him another question, but he just says, “Come find me or Feuilly if you need anything else,” and walks away. Grantaire lets his gaze linger on Enjolras’ awfully tight pants for just a little longer than necessary, but who can blame him? All the fried chicken in the world isn’t as good as that view.

*

Grantaire’s in the middle of giving a little girl a tiger face when he feels somebody pluck at his sleeve. “Hey loser.”

He deliberately doesn’t look, giving the impression of being intensely focused on filling in the orange on the girl’s face. “Oh, are you finally acknowledging my existence again? I’m so honored.”

Eponine sighs. “That’s right, drama queen, get it out of your system.”

“I find it funny that _I’m_ the drama queen when you’re the one who nearly slammed my door off its hinges last time I saw you,” Grantaire says coolly.

“Okay so we’re both drama queens. Feel better?” When Grantaire doesn’t reply, Eponine continues, “I’m sorry for the silent treatment, all right? The whole thing was stupid. And I promise I can be civil during your party if you-know-who shows up.”

Grantaire shoots a quick glance at her. She looks sincere. “Come on, Grantaire, I want my best friend back.”

“I never went anywhere, dummy,” Grantaire relents. He doesn’t have it in him to stay pissed at the only person in the world who knows how screwed up he really is and still wants to be his friend. “I was just waiting for you to stop being a butthead about it.”

“Love you too,” Eponine says, dropping a brief kiss on the top of his head. She watches him work for a second, then says, “So now that’s out of the way, let’s get to the real reason I’m here.”

“Which is?”

“To finally get a look at your bae, obviously.”

“Oh god,” Grantaire groans. He should have guessed.

“What? Dude, it’s been like a month and you’re still mooning over this guy, I just want to see what all the fuss is about. So where is he?”

“I don’t know, somewhere. Look around.” Grantaire waves his unoccupied hand vaguely. “He’s the blond one.”

“You’ve got to give me a little more to go on than that.”

“No, I really don’t,” Grantaire assures her. Eponine clicks her tongue and scans the crowd awhile, then lets out a low whistle.

“Wait, _that_ blond one? Your three-o-clock?”

Grantaire sneaks a look as he cleans the orange paint off the brush and dips it in the black. Sure enough, Enjolras is across the courtyard to his right. “Yep.”

“Wow,” Eponine says frankly. “I thought you were exaggerating.”

“Yeah, well, I wasn’t. Welcome to my nightmare.” Grantaire’s expecting her to follow up with some smarmy comment, but there’s nothing but silence. Then he realizes she’s not actually standing next to him anymore. “PONINE!”

It’s too late, she’s already halfway across the courtyard, headed for Enjolras. “Shhhhh…oot,” Grantaire hisses, remembering just in time that there’s a small child present. He finishes painting in the stripes and whiskers as fast as he can, then makes a mad dash over to hopefully stop Eponine before she embarrasses him _too_ badly.

He jabs her in the ribs when he reaches her. “What are you doing?!”

“Just introducing myself,” Eponine says innocently.

“Yeah, I bet you were.” Grantaire turns to Enjolras, inwardly praying that Eponine hadn’t said anything incriminating. “Sorry, we don’t usually let her out in public. She has this bad habit of going up to people and saying things that are complete bullshit.”

Enjolras is looking back and forth between the two of them, bewildered. Eponine takes the opportunity to jab Grantaire back in retaliation. “Don’t get your panties in a bunch, R, I told him I just wanted to make sure you weren’t hanging out with some nutjobs who were going to get you in trouble.”

“I hope you realize how ironic that is coming from _you_ , seriously.”

“Yo!” Gavroche abruptly pops up out of nowhere, as he’s prone to doing. He does a short double-take when he notices Enjolras, then raises a fist in salute. “Fight the power.”

Enjolras, inexplicably, returns the gesture and says, “Shop local,” which is apparently hilarious to Gavroche, but makes no sense as far as Grantaire can tell. Gavroche slaps Eponine lightly on the arm.

“ _La hada_ ,” he says, jerking his head to indicate direction. “We should bounce.”

Eponine’s eyes widen. Grantaire barely hears the “see ya” she tosses out before both siblings are in the wind. There’s two reasons Grantaire can think of that would explain them disappearing so hastily. The first would be if their parents were nearby, which seems highly unlikely given that the Thenardiers value public education even less than the government does. The second…

“You’ve _got_ to be kidding,” Enjolras mutters, staring in the direction Gavroche had pointed out. Grantaire follows his gaze, which appears to be fixed on an imposing-looking man in a long coat who’s currently talking to Feuilly.

“Is that guy a cop?”

“That’s Inspector Javert,” Enjolras confirms.

The name seems familiar to Grantaire, and so does the way Enjolras pronounces it like it’s leaving a bad taste in his mouth. “As in the same inspector who got on your ass after you shamed his officer into resigning?”

“The same one.” Enjolras clenches his jaw and strides over towards Javert like a gladiator marching into the arena. Grantaire, not willing to miss out on this drama, trails after him.

“Is there a problem, inspector?” Enjolras interjects. Javert’s eyes narrow, and Grantaire gets the distinct impression of a cat who just spotted its prey.

“No problem,” Javert replies smoothly. The _yet_ at the end of his sentence goes unspoken. “I’m only keeping up to date with the events happening in my community.”

“Well if that’s the case, it seems to me that your time could be much better spent somewhere that actual criminal activity might be taking place.” Enjolras’ voice is equally smooth. “You know, in the best interest of _your community_.”

Javert smiles unpleasantly. “And it seems to me that how I choose to spend my time isn’t any business of yours.”

“It is if you’re stalking me,” Enjolras says bluntly.

Feuilly’s eyebrows shoot up in alarm. “Is that what’s happening here, inspector?” he asks. His tone is neutral, but he moves to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Enjolras. Javert’s smile grows even wider and more unpleasant. He spreads his hands in a gesture of false innocence.

“I was under the impression that this event was open to the public, and this young man approached me, not the other way around.”

“Right,” Enjolras scoffs. “So first you arrange to be at my disciplinary hearing so you can threaten me in person, and then you _just happen_ to be at the very next event my club is helping to sponsor. And you expect me to believe that’s a coincidence?”

“I expect you can’t prove that it’s not.” Javert drops his hands, along with any pretense of cordiality.

“Typical pig mentality,” Enjolras spits.

Javert ignores that, addressing Feuilly instead. “It looks like you weren’t aware that your friend here has a criminal history and no respect for authority. You might want to be more careful who you associate with.” He turns back towards Enjolras, something menacing glinting in his eyes. “As for you, this little charity affair was a nice attempt to save face, but you’re not fooling anyone. It’s just a matter of time before you act out again, and don’t think I won’t be there when you do, you arrogant spoiled --”

“Ah, Inspector Javert!” cries a familiar voice. Whatever insult was about to come out of Javert’s mouth dries up as his face goes from intimidating to deer-in-the-headlights at record speed.

Professor Fauchelevent comes strolling over, accompanied by Cosette, and claps a friendly hand on Javert’s shoulder -- Grantaire doesn’t fail to notice the way the inspector flinches. “I didn’t know you took an interest in education! But it’s so good to see you out here supporting the youth. I hope the rest of your department follows your example.”

Javert opens his mouth, shuts it, and settles for nodding stiffly. Grantaire gets the bizarre sensation that he’s watching something out of a sitcom. “And I see you’ve met one of my students,” Fauchelevent continues. “Enjolras, how’s that research paper coming along?”

“It’s… coming,” Enjolras says, sounding evasive. Fauchelevent squints at him knowingly.

“Well, if you’re spending so much of your free time on good causes like this, I guess I can forgive you for not putting schoolwork first. Just remember there’s only so many extensions I can give in a semester.” He turns back to Javert. “I have to say, I’ve never had a student who was so passionate about giving back to the community. Really makes me feel like the future’s in good hands. Don’t you agree, inspector?”

A muscle tics in Javert’s jaw. “Of course,” he responds through gritted teeth, pointedly not making eye contact with anyone. “If you’ll excuse me though, I have to be going.”

“Oh yes, I know you’re a busy man,” Fauchelevent says, clapping him on the shoulder again. “Well it was lovely seeing you. We really should get dinner and catch up one of these days.”

Javert mumbles something that could be an agreement as he walks away. “Goodbye inspector!” Cosette calls cheerfully after him.

Fauchelevent scratches his beard thoughtfully. “Why do I have the feeling that I got you all out of some hot water just now?”

Enjolras shrugs. “I don’t know why. It was a perfectly civil conversation.” He’s obviously aiming for casual, but his eyes are a little too shifty to be convincing.

Fauchelevent isn’t convinced either. “Was it?”

“Absolutely,” Grantaire jumps in. “We were swapping potato salad recipes.”

Feuilly hides his face in his sleeve and coughs loudly. Enjolras, to his credit, maintains a perfectly blank expression. Cosette takes it upon herself to change the subject. “Papa, have you met Feuilly? He’s the one who organized the whole event.”

“Oh, then you’re just the person I wanted to talk to.” Fauchelevent offers a hand for Feuilly to shake. “I’d like to make a donation to the schools that were participating in this and I just need to know where to make the check out to?”

Feuilly lists off the names of the schools for him, and Fauchelevent pulls out his checkbook and starts scribbling. “You know,” he mentions to Enjolras, “I didn’t have the best impression of your club after that incident on campus, so I was very glad when Cosette told me that your next endeavor wouldn’t run the risk of getting anyone shot. You should keep it that way.”

“I’ll remember that,” Enjolras says. “Thank you for reaching out to the university for us -- we would have asked for the materials ourselves, but like you said, they don’t have the best impression of us.”

Fauchelevent rips out the four checks -- one for each school -- and hands them to Feuilly. “As long as you kids are staying nonviolent, I’m happy to support you.”

“Does that mean you’ll let me go to the meetings now?” Cosette pipes up.

“We’ll see,” Fauchelevent replies. Cosette rolls her eyes and shoots them a wink when her father can’t see it. Fauchelevent tucks his checkbook back inside his coat and fixes Enjolras with a serious look. “Inspector Javert is not somebody whose bad side you want to be on. Just be careful.”

Enjolras nods. “Thanks for your concern.”

“Well, that was unexpected,” Grantaire remarks after Fauchelevent and Cosette have left. “Javert looked like he wanted to shit his pants though, didn’t he?”

Enjolras lets out a slight huff of laughter as the tension goes out of his shoulders. He looks at Feuilly and frowns. “What is it?”

Feuilly is staring at the pieces of paper in his hands in disbelief. “...This is twenty thousand dollars.”

“What?” Grantaire exclaims. Feuilly wordlessly holds out the checks so they can see -- four of them, for five thousand dollars each. (Grantaire notes Enjolras’ lack of an astonished reaction which, seriously, how fucking rich is he anyway?)

There’s a silence, then Grantaire says, “You guys know what this means, right?” The other two look over at him. “Fauchelevent is an ex-kingpin.”

Enjolras sighs. “Grantaire…”

“Think about it!” Grantaire insists. “Professors don’t make that kind of money, and he and Javert clearly know each other from back in the day. It all fits!”

Feuilly is looking at him side-eyed. “I can’t tell if you’re being serious or not.”

“That’s normal,” Enjolras assures him. “Don’t you have some children you should be getting back to?” he adds to Grantaire, placing a hand on the base of his neck and lightly shoving him in the direction of his abandoned face painting table. Grantaire does _not_ think about how his skin is tingling where Enjolras’ fingers were, because that would be ridiculous. On his way back to the table he feels his phone buzz in his pocket and takes a quick look. There’s two messages from Eponine -- one sent about five minutes ago, the other just now.

_He’s a tool and he’s wearing women’s jeans. you can do better. his eyebrow game is on point though i’ll give him that much_

_Ponines a hater. u two would be good for each other. -gav_

Grantaire has no idea how Gavroche came to that conclusion, but the fact that an eighth grader feels qualified to give him romantic advice is probably not a good sign.

*

By 3:00 the mammoth array of food is long gone, the stacks of books have nearly all been carted off, and Feuilly estimates they’ve provided a couple thousand dollars worth of supplies to all the schools involved (plus Fauchelevent’s mysteriously generous donation). All in all, the day was a success. Grantaire’s more than ready to celebrate by going home and taking a nap -- his body still hasn’t forgiven him for waking up before 10 am. However, the universe evidently decided he needs to suffer today, because he walks out of the parish house after helping to move the last of the tables back inside to discover it’s started raining.

“Too tired for this bullshit,” Grantaire announces to nobody in particular, before yanking his hood up and walking over to unlock his bike from the railing along the front steps. He gives the seat a quick wipe with his sleeve and is about to hop on when somebody calls his name.

Enjolras is standing at the top of the steps, Combeferre and Courfeyrac right behind him. “Do you want a ride home?” he asks, gesturing up at the heavy sky. “This doesn’t look like it’s going to let up any time soon.”

It takes Grantaire a second to register the question before he replies, “Sure, thanks.” He doesn’t let himself read anything into it, because Enjolras is just being helpful, obviously.

“Actually,” Courfeyrac says to Enjolras, “Cosette’s driving Marius back to campus, so if you’re going the other way we’ll just catch a ride with them.”

Enjolras seems caught off guard suddenly. “Are you --”

“See you back at the dorm,” Combeferre interrupts him, planting a kiss on his cheek before he and Courfeyrac depart, leaving Enjolras and Grantaire and an oppressive silence broken only by the patter of raindrops.

“I’m parked this way,” Enjolras says after a moment, motioning towards the side of the building. Grantaire hefts his bike up on his shoulder and follows Enjolras to his car. He’s guessing it’ll be something tiny and fuel-efficient and plastered with political bumper stickers, and his prediction is right on the money. INVEST IN AMERICA - BUY A CONGRESSMAN is probably his favorite.

“But how will people be able to _tell_ you’re a dirty unpatriotic socialist?”

“Ha ha.” Enjolras pops the trunk and folds the back seats down so Grantaire has room to slide his bike in.

Once they’re in the car Grantaire realizes this is only the second time since he’s known him that he’s been alone with Enjolras. Things are easier when they have the buffer of their mutual friends between them, when he can sit back and admire Enjolras from a distance, but now it’s just the two of them and they’re on unfamiliar ground. It’s making him excruciatingly self-conscious.

The fact that Enjolras seems tense isn’t helping either -- he’s oddly stiff, except for his thumb tapping restlessly against the steering wheel. This is turning into a very uncomfortable car ride, so Grantaire does what he usually does when he’s uncomfortable, which is blurt out the first coherent thought that pops into his head. “By the way, are you wearing women’s pants?”

“What?”

“Not that there’s anything wrong with that, obviously. I was just curious.”

“Well,” Enjolras says slowly, like he’s explaining to a five year old, “I’m a man, and they’re my pants, so no I’m not.”

Grantaire supposes he should have known better than to gender clothing in front of a guy who wears dresses. Enjolras continues, “If you’re asking if they’re from the ‘women’s’ section, I wouldn’t know. I found them in the clearance bin at a thrift store.” Now that, Grantaire can’t help but laugh at. “Why is that funny?”

“What is the everloving _point_ of having rich parents if you’re gonna shop at thrift stores?” Grantaire knows as the words are leaving his mouth that bringing up Enjolras’ finances is probably going to do the opposite of relieving tension, but _seriously_.

Enjolras purses his lips. “The _point_ is not buying clothes from retailers that exploit sweatshop labor.”

“Of course it is.” Grantaire slouches a little further down in his seat and decides to stare out at the raindrops streaking across the window rather than at the disdainful look on Enjolras’ face. “Make the next left.”

They lapse back into awkward silence for the next half mile or so, until Enjolras says out of nowhere at a stoplight, “Why do you come to the meetings?”

 _I’m pretty sure I’m in love with you, only I’m pathetic and you wouldn’t give me the time of day if I hadn’t wormed my way into your social circle, so I have to be content with sitting in the back of the room and making bad jokes since that’s all I’m good for._ “Because a bunch of my friends are there and I don’t have anything better to do.”

“Bullshit.” Grantaire looks over at him in surprise, not sure whether he should start panicking. Enjolras is staring at him intensely. “I don’t believe that.”

“All right then, what do you think?”

“Well at first I thought you were just a nihilist prick who got off on disagreeing with everything.” The light turns green, and Enjolras looks back at the road as he starts driving again, but he’s still glancing sideways at Grantaire every now and then. “Which was unbelievably annoying, but you did prove you were at least capable of useful criticism, so whatever. But I wasn’t expecting you to volunteer to help with the book fair.”

“You thought I was enough of a prick to argue against better public education?”

Enjolras sighs. “I thought you would say ‘what’s the point?’ Like you always do. I mean, you’re always going on about how every other thing we do is futile, I’m sure you could have found a way to say the same about this.”

“Are you _trying_ to make me be negative right now?” There’s some kind of profound cosmic displacement going on right now, Grantaire thinks. “Like, okay, yes, in the grand bleak scheme of things, every single lower-income kid is being set up for failure anyway. That’s fairly obvious to anyone who knows how the system works. But the _kids_ don’t know that yet, at least not the younger ones anyway. So if you say you want to improve their childhoods a bit before they grow up and realize the world sucks, I say hey! Great! They might as well make the most of it while they can.”

After a long moment, Enjolras finally says, “You don’t make any sense.”

Grantaire snorts. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

“No, really, you don’t make any sense,” Enjolras insists. He sounds exasperated, but not in the usual way he gets when he’s annoyed at Grantaire. There’s an edge to it that Grantaire can’t quite identify. “You act like everything’s hopeless and you couldn’t care less about trying to make a difference, but then you turn around and say things like that. Or like what you said to that kid about his father. You’re just contradicting yourself.”

“Yeah, I do that a lot,” Grantaire says unhelpfully. “Turn in up there.” He doesn’t see where this is going, and he’s not too keen on people trying to get inside his head, Enjolras especially. Thankfully they’ve just reached his apartment complex, which means this strange conversation is over. “Look, no offense, but you’re not a psychologist so you should probably just stick to what you know, yeah? You can let me out here.”

Enjolras is quiet as Grantaire gets out and retrieves his bike from the trunk. Just before Grantaire shuts the door, Enjolras turns around in his seat and says, “Thanks for helping out today. Whatever your reasons were. I’m just glad you showed up.”

Grantaire meets his eyes and smiles softly, because what else is he supposed to do when Enjolras is giving him a genuine thank you? He’s so weak. “Yeah, sure. Thanks for the ride.”

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took so long to write for literally no reason? Good grief. Anyway the next chapter is already almost half done, so that'll be coming much sooner. Thanks as always to everyone who's been patiently waiting for the update!
> 
> Also, I haven't been putting warnings on chapters because I figure anyone sitting down to read a Grantaire POV fic assumes that substance abuse and mental illness are going to be part of the package. However this chapter does contain a (very brief) instance of purging for anyone who might want a heads up for that!

As a general rule, Grantaire doesn’t do birthdays in the conventional sense. His own birthdays, anyway. His parents stopped making a big deal out of it sometime in high school, opting to leave a store-bought card on the kitchen counter for him with a $20 bill tucked inside in lieu of any displays of authentic affection. It’s been years since the last time he got a present that wasn’t alcohol or some kind of illicit substance -- not counting from Eponine, because Eponine is his best friend and therefore the exception to every rule.

During his first and only year of college, he hadn’t even bothered to tell anyone when his birthday was happening. He had cultivated a loose circle of acquaintances by that point in the semester, but nobody he really considered close friends, and he didn’t want to put anyone in the uncomfortable position of feeling obligated to do or get him something. So he just celebrated in the usual way, which was spending the whole day as trashed as possible.

He’s expecting this year to be more or less a repeat performance. Sure, Eponine had got it into her head to throw him a party because turning 21 is supposed to be some momentous special occasion or whatever, but the end result is still Grantaire getting as trashed as possible. It’s not like turning 21 is even that special, considering he’s been a fully independent adult since summer, and he had a fake ID before he was out of high school.

So it’s a surprise when the clock strikes midnight on the fifteenth and his phone begins vibrating under an onslaught of texts. He’s curled up in bed, nursing his third beer (okay, so he started the celebrations a little early, what of it) and mindlessly skimming Buzzfeed articles. The sudden noise from his phone startles him, and he grabs it where it’s lying on the floor next to his futon. It’s a few seconds before he can actually read the messages, since as soon as he opens one another notification pops up. The first is from Eponine, which isn’t unusual, but then there’s one from Bahorel, and from Bossuet, and Joly, Jehan, Courfeyrac, Marius -- and when the hell did Cosette even get his phone number?

The messages range from _happy birthday gorgeous xox_ to _YEEEAAAH BOYYY BIG 21 WE POPPING BOTTLES TONIGHT_ to _congrats! one year closer to death, enjoy it while it lasts u bukowski-loving fuck_ (he types back to Bahorel, _you know me so well_ ). It feels cheesy to admit that he falls asleep with a grin on his face, but it’s his birthday, he’s allowed to be cheesy if he wants.

His second, bigger surprise comes around 8:00 that evening when he arrives at Bahorel’s dorm. Eponine’s busy helping Jehan get his apartment ready, so it had been decided that Bahorel would host the pregaming and the two of them would swing by to let them know when everything was set up. Grantaire’s on good enough terms with the other suitemates that he’s free to just walk in whenever the door’s unlocked, which it is.

He’s met with a deafening chorus of “HAPPY BIRTHDAY” and a haphazard shower of confetti from all directions. Bossuet slaps something onto his head that turns out to be one of those dollar store party tiaras. There’s a space cleared on the kitchenette counter where Feuilly is currently lighting actual birthday candles on an actual birthday cake.

“I figured by the time we get to Jehan’s your only priorities are gonna be shots and dancing on furniture,” Bahorel explains, slinging an arm around Grantaire’s shoulders and pressing what appears to be a mimosa into his hands. “So I told people we’d do cake and presents here first. And I know Eponine said you didn’t want us all getting you stuff, but tough shit.” They clap him on the back and steer him towards the counter. “Come on, before the wax starts dripping.”

Grantaire stares down at the flickering points of light against a background of green and white frosting, with a bewildered sense that he’s looking at a mirage. “I haven’t had a birthday cake since I was thirteen,” he blurts out, feeling lame as soon as the words are out.

Joly frowns at him. “Do you remember how this works?” he says with an excess of mock-concern. “See, these things are called _candles_ , and --”

“All right, fuck off,” Grantaire says, breaking into a smile at last. He squeezes his eyes shut to give the impression of making a wish, because truthfully he can’t think of anything realistic he could hope for for that isn’t already in the room.

Technically there’s enough actual furniture for them all to sit on, but Grantaire insists on getting comfortable in the ball pit anyway. It’s been too long. Besides, the makeshift ledge of cardboard-plastered cinder blocks is at a perfect height for him to set his drinks on while he opens his presents.

Feuilly, ever practical, got him a scarf. It’s thick and absurdly long, and Grantaire makes a point of wrapping it around himself until the entire bottom half of his face is covered. Bahorel got him one of those little vinyl figures with the big heads, but because they’re an asshole, had taken it out of its original packaging and put it inside of an empty box of fleet. (“Very subtle commentary,” Grantaire observes when he pulls out the the little Gustavo Fring doll. “I’m sure Vince Gilligan would approve.”) Joly and Bossuet, who are staunch admirers of Grantaire’s array of are-they-or-aren’t-they-ironic ugly sweaters, got him another one for the collection, featuring particularly violent shades of yellow and lavender. Marius got him a $50 Panera gift card. If that had been from anybody else, Grantaire would think it was deliberately impersonal, but he knows Marius also lives on his own when he’s not at school and therefore appreciates the value of free food.

“That’s from Courfeyrac too,” Marius notes, and Grantaire suddenly realizes this is the first time he’s seen Marius in any kind of group setting without his roommate there. He’s always gotten the feeling that Marius is uneasy around people, leaning on Courfeyrac’s liveliness and warmth to navigate social situations. But here he is, sipping drinks with the rest of them, looking if not completely relaxed then at least not on the edge of his seat like he expects a bomb to go off any second.

Grantaire reflects on Les Amis’ uncanny joint ability to make people feel at home, and feels a bubble of sheer gratitude swell inside him.

Mimosas give way to a round of shots (double for the birthday boy, of course), and they’re enjoying a few rambunctious bouts of Super Smash Bros when Jehan enters to announce that it’s time to move the party to his apartment.

“No Eponine?” Grantaire asks, chucking one of the plastic balls at Bahorel’s head just as they’re about to blast Joly off of the platform in-game. The four controllers have been rotating between the six of them, so Grantaire is currently “running interference,” which translates to intermittently throwing balls at people’s faces or hands and laughing when he gets them to mess up. Makes the game more invigorating.

“She and Montparnasse went to go pick up the bud,” Jehan says. “They’ll meet us back at the apartment. Also, happy birthday,” he adds, handing Grantaire a small lopsided package bound up in tissue paper.

Grantaire rips the paper off to reveal two packs of Marlboro Reds and an old-fashioned brass lighter with an elaborately scripted _R_ embossed on the side. “This is the most pretentious thing I’ve ever seen,” he declares, clambering out of the ball pit to give Jehan a hug, “and I love it.”

“You? Pretentious? Perish the thought.” Jehan smiles and jingles his keys. “Who needs a ride?”

“Us,” Joly and Bossuet say simultaneously.

Marius shakes his head. “Cosette’s gonna pick me and Courfeyrac up, we’re coming a little bit later.”

“I’m bringing my bike.” Bahorel hops to their feet. “I bet I’ll beat you there, too.”

“Sorry,” Feuilly sighs, pulling his coat on, “this is where I have to call it a night.”

“Wait, whaaat?” Grantaire demands. “Dude, I know you’re an old man compared to the rest of us, but come on. This was just the warm-up.”

Feuilly smiles a little ruefully. “Yeah, well some of us have night jobs to get to.” _No wonder your dark circles could give mine a run for their money_ , Grantaire thinks. Feuilly pauses on his way to the door to give him a friendly punch on the arm. “Have a great birthday, Grantaire. Pour one out for me.”

“Oh, I’ll pour several out for you,” Grantaire confirms with an exaggerated wink.

There’s a general refrain of “Bye Feuilly!” as he departs. Bahorel kicks half-heartedly at the plastic balls and confetti scattered across the floor.

“Ugh, now I’m gonna have to clean this up.”

“That’s what the morning after’s for.” Grantaire pours himself one final shot of Jack for the road, downs it with a flourish, and claps his hands together. “Right, I’m ready to get _fucked up_ , who’s with me?”

*

Either Grantaire pissed off fewer people than he thought last year, or he had just forgotten how willing college students are to show up when free liquor is involved. Whichever reason it is, by 10 pm Jehan’s apartment is teeming with people, half of whom Grantaire doesn’t even recognize. Not that it matters. He’d made it clear that everybody had free reign to bring along whoever they wanted, as long as they could be trusted not to break shit or take advantage of anybody. Grantaire’s always been of the opinion that the bigger a party is, the better -- more chances there’ll be at least one person with good weed on them, more easy to avoid somebody if necessary, more likely that he won’t be the only one who winds up standing half-naked on a table singing along to Taylor Swift.

Then again, it’s entirely possibly that he doesn’t recognize half these people because he is _well and truly wasted_. Jehan had insisted on paying for all the booze, which means that not only is there plenty of it, it’s also quality stuff. Grantaire’s never had friends with this kind of disposable income before. He could get used to it if he isn’t careful. At any rate, he’s five shots in (not counting the three he’d had at Bahorel’s earlier), plus a rum and coke, some jungle juice, and more than a few hits of the purple kush Montparnasse had gotten through one of his various connections. He’s gonna have to throw up soon just so he can keep drinking -- he doubts alcohol poisoning is one of those things that’s more fun the second time around.

The furniture has been pushed up against the walls of the living room to clear space for a makeshift dance floor, and Grantaire is currently having an out of body experience to whatever electronic beat is being pumped through Jehan’s stereo speakers. He gyrates his way out of the center of the throng and over to where Montparnasse is idling by the wall that separates the living room from the kitchen.

“What’s going on, Parnasse? Too good to cut loose like the rest of us?”

Montparnasse wrinkles his perfect nose distastefully. “I dance when there’s real music playing, not this watered-down synth pop garbage.”

“Sounds like a third grader taking a shit on an electric keyboard,” his companion agrees.

This guy’s tattooed, squashed-in face looks vaguely familiar. _Gueulemer_ , Grantaire’s drink-addled brain provides a second later. So much for Eponine’s warning about not bringing any skeezy friends. “Well, naturally I’d have to defer to such an erudite observation from someone who’s evidently a connoisseur of the auditory arts.”

Gueulemer blinks at him uncomprehendingly. “What?”

“Exactly.” Grantaire braces himself with one hand against the wall next to Montparnasse’s side and looks up at him through lowered eyelashes. He’s got zero interest in actually dancing with the guy, but it’s fun antagonizing him. “Come on, pretty boy,” he says in an overly breathy voice. “You’ve got the hips, I wanna see if you know how to work them.”

“Wow Grantaire, I didn’t realize you were _that_ desperate.” Jehan appears seemingly from nowhere, grabbing Grantaire’s outstretched arm and draping it across his own shoulders. “I mean, you could at least find an _attractive_ straight boy to make uncomfortable.”

“Hilarious,” Montparnasse says in a bored monotone, flicking a strand of gelled hair out of his eyes. Jehan winks at him and maneuvers Grantaire away into the kitchen before he can do anything else lewd.

“Pffft, ‘straight’. My ass. That boy’s as queer as a clockwork orange, he just doesn’t know it yet.”

Jehan shakes his head. “You are so drunk.”

“YOU are correct!” Grantaire exclaims, tweaking Jehan’s nose. “And you are also not drunk enough, come on, it’s not like you have to drive anywhere tonight.” He grabs an empty shot glass off the counter, rinses it, and fills it from a bottle of whatever’s closest -- Maker’s Mark, as it turns out. “Bottoms up, gingersnap.”

“Blech.” Jehan gags, but tosses the shot back obligingly. Grantaire refills the glass and downs it himself, then seizes Jehan by the hem of his shirt and drags him back out to the “dance floor."

The air is crackling with sweat and booze and rhythm, and Jehan is flushed and laughing as the two of them jostle against each other and the bodies around them. Grantaire’s missed this -- the sensation of melting into a crowd, the blessed freedom of being able to detach from his restless brain and not _think_ about anything for a change. He’s delirious off of that as much as he is from the various substances in his bloodstream.

Eventually they stumble onto the balcony to light up. It’s freezing, but after the mass of body heat being generated in the apartment, the prickling cold is almost refreshing. Joly is already outside, apparently in conversation with another pre-med student. They’re talking a mile a minute about something to do with cloning organs and whatever is in Joly’s solo cup keeps sloshing over the rim as he gestures excitedly.

Grantaire sidles up to Bossuet, who’s leaning against the railing. “I see he can’t _hold his liquor_ for shit.”

“Badum-tss!” Bossuet punctuates his sound effect by hitting an imaginary cymbal. “Yeah, we’re probably gonna crash here tonight if that’s cool.”

“Of course!” Jehan says, breathing out smoke. “Not like you guys haven’t done the same for me.”

“As long as we’re all in agreement that the birthday boy gets dibs on the couch,” Grantaire chimes in, accepting the spliff from Jehan. “But you’re more than welcome to come cuddle,” he adds, waggling his eyebrows. “If you don’t think your life partner would get too jealous.”

Bossuet raises his own eyebrows in fake surprise. “Oh, I assumed he was included in that invitation. You should know by now we’re a package deal.” Grantaire laughs and takes a deep drag, tipping his head back and exhaling the mixture of tobacco and kush through his nostrils. He passes the spliff back to Jehan, then reaches over to grab Joly’s wrist in midair before he can spill any more of his drink.

“Right, I can’t just stand here and watch this tragic waste of alcohol happening. If you’re not gonna drink it, I will.” He liberates the cup from Joly’s grasp and chugs what’s left of its contents -- not all that much, considering, but enough for his stomach to start sending up preliminary warning signals. “Was that number eleven? Or twelve? I think that might have been number twelve.”

“You’re actually counting?” Bossuet says, sounding genuinely surprised this time. Grantaire doesn’t bother explaining that his only reason for keeping track of his drinks is to know when it’s time to empty out his stomach and start the count over again. No need for his friends to know the sad extent of his alcoholism. He excuses himself to head inside and make a beeline for the bathroom.

It’s occupied, but there’s no line, and Grantaire’s not yet at the blackout drunk phase where he can’t hold back impending vomit for a minute or two. He just hopes it’s not someone having sex in there. Thankfully this isn’t the case, and in short time he’s kneeling over the toilet bowl shoving his fingers down his throat. It takes a couple tries, since after what’s now six years of consistent drinking and semi-consistent blowjobs his gag reflex is pretty numb, but he finally relieves himself. He borrows some toothpaste and scrubs it on with a finger (sending a mental beam of apology/gratitude in Jehan’s direction and hey, the kid might very well be psychic, Grantaire wouldn’t be a bit surprised), and even has the presence of mind to take a few swallows of water from the sink before he heads back out to start doing shots again.

He gets side-tracked on his way to the kitchen by three familiar faces coming through the front door. “Heeey! What took you guys so long?”

“This one had to change his clothes seventeen times,” Marius explains, jerking a thumb at his roommate.

Courfeyrac scoffs and makes a show of adjusting his cardigan. “As if I would walk in here looking anything less than my best.”

“You can’t really talk, Marius,” Cosette adds, “you wear the same band t-shirt every three days.”

“You let them gang up on you like this?” Grantaire asks.

Cosette shrugs. “Eh, I make it up to him.”

“Okay, don’t elaborate, I don’t need to hear about your wild and tempestuous sex life.” Marius splutters incoherently, like Grantaire knew he would, because it’s a safe bet the two of them haven’t even seen each other naked. “Anyway, welcome to your first college party, Cosette!”

“Does it count as a college party if the guest of honor isn’t actually in college?” Courfeyrac wonders.

“Semantics,” Grantaire says, waving his hand lazily.

“R!”

Grantaire has just enough time to register that _oh, this is gonna be awkward_ , before Eponine elbows her way out of the kitchen and is standing next to him. When she realizes who he’s talking to she freezes, eyes darting back and forth between them like a cornered animal.

“Hey! Eponine!” Marius sounds genuinely pleased to see her. No doubt that only makes things worse. “It’s been forever!”

“Yeah, it has,” Eponine replies curtly. She hands Grantaire a shot. “Here. You told me to let you know when they opened the Patrón.”

“Ahh! Yes! Good looking out.” Grantaire tosses back the shot, then looks at her expectantly. “What, you only brought me one?”

“What am I, your butler?” Eponine snarks.

Marius, poor soul, is still completely oblivious. “Have you met Cosette? She’s --”

“Hi,” Eponine says without making eye contact and abruptly brushes past them, removing herself from the conversation.

_Well, that was probably the best outcome we could have hoped for_ , Grantaire thinks, and claps his hands. “Okay then, you heard the lady, they opened the Patrón! That’s not gonna last long.”

Cosette is staring in the direction that Eponine just went with a strange, far-off look on her face. “You boys have fun,” she says distractedly, unhooking Marius’ arm from around her shoulders. “Designated driver and all that, excuse me.”

“Where are you going?” Marius calls out, but she’s already disappeared. Grantaire hopes for her sake she’s not trying to track Eponine down for an explanation -- he’d hate for Cosette to have her first party experience spoiled by needing to collect her scalp off of the floor.

Courfeyrac takes over the empty space next to Marius, patting him on the back. “Women, dude, don’t even try to figure it out. Come on! The tequila beckons!” Marius follows them dutifully into the kitchen, looking a little apprehensive now that his date has abandoned him. Grantaire’s guessing it won’t be long before he runs off to hide in the bathroom or something. The life of an introvert is a rough one.

One round of shots turns into more than one, which turns into an impromptu game of sixes, which leads to Grantaire feeling like the floor is threatening to drop away from under him. He’s definitely close to hitting blackout stage, meaning he should probably enlist himself a babysitter before then to ensure he doesn’t wake up in the ER again. Look at him, being all responsible and shit.

Eponine would be his first choice, but after doing a full sweep of the apartment, she’s nowhere to be found, and if it turns out she ditched the party altogether after that run-in with The Couple Who Must Not Be Named then Grantaire is seriously going to kill her. He decides Jehan is likely his second best bet as far as responsible supervision goes. He turns around to head back out to the balcony --

\-- and nearly collides with Enjolras.

They both stumble backwards at the same time, though Grantaire’s stumbling is much more pronounced, owing to the copious amounts of alcohol in his system and also to his shock that Enjolras is here. At his birthday party. “Whoah! Fuck! What are you doing here?”

He realizes as soon as the words have left his mouth that they were probably Not The Best Thing to say, and hurriedly continues, “Oh shit, that sounded really rude, didn’t it? I didn’t mean you’re not welcome, I just meant I wasn’t expecting you to be here! At all. Like, I would assume there’s a million things you’d rather be doing right now, you know, like composing angry letters to Congress or reading ‘And The Band Played On’ for the fiftieth time or something. You just never struck me as the house party type. Kind of feels like I’m watching a dolphin climb a tree. No offense! Or anything. I mean, dolphins are beautiful, highly intelligent animals, right?”

Enjolras is staring at him like he’s grown a second head. It almost makes Grantaire want to keep on babbling, as if to prove he’s doing so by choice and not because the combination of his drunkenness and Enjolras’ presence has completely negated his capacity for higher thought.

Thankfully, he doesn’t get the chance. Combeferre clears his throat (and it’s really a sign of how bad Grantaire’s tunnel vision is that he hadn’t even noticed Combeferre standing right there too) and says, “Well, we figured we could take a break from the liberal crusade for an hour or two.” He hands Grantaire a perfectly-wrapped present. “Happy birthday.”

“Oh shit!” Grantaire yelps. “You know you didn’t have to get me anything.”

Combeferre shrugs. “But we wanted to.”

_We_. “Wow, giving joint birthday presents, you two really are an old married couple,” Grantaire jokes to cover up his amazement at the idea that Enjolras not only _came to his birthday party_ but also _got him a birthday present_. He half expects to wake up from this fever dream any second.

The wrapping job is so perfect, in fact, that it takes Grantaire a moment of scrabbling at it to figure out where the tape is. “Do you need help with that?” Enjolras observes dryly.

“Nope, I got this.” Grantaire rips the paper off to reveal… “Aw, you got me a book! You nerds.” He squints at the title: _Shakespeare’s Insults_. “Oh, you are the BEST KIND of nerds!”

“I had a feeling it was a good choice,” Combeferre laughs.

Grantaire flips to a random page and scans it eagerly. He recites in a booming voice, “‘Truly thou art damned, like an ill-roasted egg, all on one side.’ These are great. I’m gonna start working them into casual conversation.”

“Well, at least you’re setting goals for yourself,” Enjolras says.

Grantaire snaps the book shut and has a split-second urge to hug one of them before he remembers that he’s still not sure they’re friends, strictly speaking. He quickly aborts the gesture and tries to disguise it by waving his arm in the direction of the kitchen. “Anyway! I think we finished off most of the top shelf stuff but there’s jungle juice still, plenty of beer, help yourselves.”

Enjolras shifts his weight a little uncomfortably. “I don’t drink, actually.”

_Of course you don’t_. “Right! Yeah, well, uh… huh, I’m not really sure what that leaves you? Wait, wait, I know we have coke, because I keep getting rum and cokes from somewhere --”

“I think we’ll figure it out,” Combeferre reassures him.

“Oh, no doubt! You are beautiful and highly intelligent animals after all.” Grantaire holds up the book. “I’m gonna go find somewhere to put this masterpiece where it won’t get damaged, excuse me.” With that, he turns around and flees the scene before he can embarrass himself any further.

He makes it to the far end of the living room and then sinks to the floor behind the arm of the couch, safely out of view from about three-fourths of the party. He just needs to breathe and recuperate for a minute. Just needs enough time to get his head around the fact that the guy he’s got a desperate unrequited crush on, who is the same guy he can’t have a conversation with that doesn’t devolve into them complaining about each other, is currently one room over because he made a conscious decision to spend time in the same place as Grantaire for some unfathomable reason.

Grantaire pulls his knees up to his chest and lets his head drop between them, clamping down on the bout of hysterical laughter that wants to come out of him right now. Yeah, no amount of breathing is going to rationalize this. What the _fuck_ is his life, seriously.

“Grantaire? Hey!” He raises his head to see Eponine squatting down in front of him and leaning in to grab him firmly by the shoulders. “Look at me. Are you alright? Do you need to throw up?”

“Actually, I’m not alright,” Grantaire replies. “I’m actually losing my fucking mind because the universe is punishing me for surviving another year, apparently.”

Eponine relaxes slightly, but maintains her grip on his shoulders. “What happened?”

A little bit of that hysterical laughter slips out before Grantaire can stop it. He shakes his head, trying to focus. It’s difficult. There’s a lot of distractions at the moment, like the haziness in his brain, and the object of his pitiful affections one room over, and the closeness of Eponine’s face to his -- hang on a second. “Have you been crying?”

“What? No!”

“Your eyes are red.” Grantaire has seen Eponine cry exactly once in all the time he’s known her, and even that was only under particularly extreme circumstances. Tonight is just one unbelievable event after another.

“I’ve been smoking kush all night, of course they’re red.” She releases him and leans back on her heels with a huff. “Why are you on the floor if you’re not sick?”

Grantaire lowers his voice to a dismayed whisper. “Guess who’s here.”

“Who?” In lieu of answering, Grantaire just widens his eyes in a pained expression, willing her to get the message. “Oh, Enjolras? So what?”

“So what? So I’m bombed as fuck and the dude whose mental image I’ve been exclusively jacking off to for the last two months just showed up, how does that not spell ‘recipe for disaster’ to you? Why is he even here?”

“Maybe because all his friends are here?” Eponine says as if it should be obvious. “And I’d like to never again hear about your masturbation habits, if that’s quite all right with you.”

Grantaire fixes her with a grim look. “You know there’s only one option here, right?” Eponine raises an eyebrow. “Get so blackout drunk that when I _do_ inevitably humiliate myself, at least I won’t be able to remember it.”

“Of course,” Eponine sighs. “I assume this means I’m chaperoning you for the rest of the night so you don’t end up in the hospital behind this bullshit?”

“You assume correctly. Also, could you get me some more shots? Like at least three more shots. I can’t go in the kitchen right now because he’s in there.”

“Jesus christ,” Eponine groans, rolling her eyes as she stands up. “You’re lucky it’s the one day of the year when you can get away with being a fucking child.”

_Luck wants absolutely nothing to do with me right now_ , Grantaire thinks.

*

The rest of the night passes him by in a whirlwind of noise and bodies. A few fragments stand out more vividly than the rest -- doing shots out of someones cleavage, jumping (falling?) off a counter, getting into a contest of who could deep-throat a banana the furthest -- he doesn’t remember who ended up winning, not like it matters. The room seems to get more claustrophobic as night begins to give way to very early morning, despite there being fewer people, until Grantaire feels like the air is weighing down on him. He can’t concentrate on anything except his skin buzzing like all his molecules want to get airborne, lift him up through the ceiling and beyond.

And then suddenly he’s out in the open with only the inky sky above him. He blinks, startled back into lucidity for a moment, and turns in a circle trying to get his bearings. The motion just ends up making him dizzy, so he sits down. There’s cold concrete beneath him, and city lights on the horizon… “Is this the roof? How'd we get on the roof?”

“You dragged us up here when you found the fire escape, remember?” Jehan enters his field of vision, squinting down at him. “Are you feeling okay?”

“I’m freezing,” Grantaire replies, becoming aware that the night air is glancing off his bare chest. He’s got a jacket draped across his shoulders, but no shirt underneath it. “Whose jacket is this?”

“Mine,” Bahorel’s voice comes from somewhere behind him. “And I need it back before I leave, so don’t go puking on it.”

That would explain why the zipper is hanging down almost at his knees. Grantaire fumbles with it, trying to pull it up, but his fingers are uncooperative. “Here,” Jehan offers, crouching over and doing it for him. Grantaire scrunches himself up into a ball and tugs the end of the hoodie down over his legs, so that his whole body is inside the fabric. On a whim, he lets himself tip over backwards like one of those roly poly bugs, wiggling his feet in the air.

“You’re gonna stretch it out!” Bahorel protests, but without any real heat behind it.

“I’ll buy you a new one,” Grantaire promises, as if he has the extra money to spend. He cranes his neck back, trying to see who else is up here, but between his upside-down vantage point, a lack of proper lighting up here, and his scrambled brain circuits, all he can make out are shadowy figures. He thinks he counts four.

There’s a rustle of movement on his right, and then he feels Jehan’s fingers combing through his hair. He hums happily and closes his eyes. “If I could purr right now I would.”

Jehan giggles a little. “Glad to be of service.”

A lighter clicks somewhere, and a few seconds later Grantaire catches the scent of weed wafting through the air. “Who wants to be nice and give the birthday boy a hit?”

He hears approaching footsteps, then a soft tinkle of jewelry as someone bends over him. “Pucker up,” Cosette says, placing the end of the joint against his lips. “Not that you really need any more party favors at this point. Do you even remember what year it is?”

“It’s the year of the horse,” Grantaire murmurs in a throaty voice, trying not to let the smoke escape all at once. He purses his lips tightly and blows out in a thin stream. With his perspective flipped, he can watch the wisps of smoke float down into the endless void of night beneath him.

The blood is starting to rush uncomfortably to his head, so he squirms his lower half out of the hoodie and lies flat on the roof, eyes closed again, listening indistinctly to the low chatter around him. Jehan’s hand has moved from his hair to resting on his breastbone. Grantaire vaguely registers one finger idly trailing back and forth along his tattoo where it peeps out. He feels like he could drift off to sleep right there, even despite the cold concrete seeping into his back.

“Hey birthday boy, don’t go passing out,” he hears Eponine say, like she’d read his mind. “We’re not carrying your ass back downstairs.”

Grantaire sits up, reeling for a second from the change in equilibrium. “I gotta pee,” he realizes suddenly, wobbling to his feet and evaluating options. There’s adjacent rooftops on either side of them, and the front of the building overlooks a main road, so he heads for the rear. Which happens to put him right in the line of sight of everyone else on the roof, but what’s a little indecent exposure between friends, right?

Marius doesn’t seem to agree. “Grantaire, come on! Nobody wants to see your dick right now.”

“Methinks the heterosexual doth protest too much,” Grantaire replies, taking aim as carefully as possible considering how trashed he is. He sways a little and leans back from the edge of the roof, just to be safe. “Hey, who wants to bet I can hit the trash cans?”

“We’re not encouraging you,” Eponine says, at the exact same time as Bahorel says, “I’ll bet you the rest of this joint.”

A faintly glistening stream arcs through the air, and seconds later comes the gentle telltale sound of liquid pattering on metal. “Pay up, sucker.”

Bahorel leans over Grantaire’s shoulder to ascertain his success, then sighs ruefully. “Goddamn it,” they say, tucking the promised prize in between Grantaire’s lips. “Why do you have to be so talented in the art of drunken public urination?”

“Lots of practice, obviously.”

“There’s a skill you can put on a resume,” Jehan laughs.

Grantaire grins, taking a deep drag and blowing it out through his nose, not bothering to remove his hands from their current task. The world looks tiny in soft focus below him and the scattered dots of streetlights are sending up a placid yellow glow. He mumbles around the joint, in a quiet off-key melody meant just for his own ears, “Happy birthday to meee.”

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've also posted a bonus side chapter of sorts, it's a missing scene from Grantaire's birthday party...! I'd suggest reading that one before this new chapter, but it'll still make sense if you do it the other way around. Thanks as always to people still reading this, wow.
> 
> This chapter has a semi-explicit discussion about self harm and a reference to body dysphoria if you squint. Also two more brief purging scenes (mornings after are Horrific).

Predictable side effect of alcoholism: getting used to excruciating hangovers. Anything can become familiar once you’ve done it enough times. However, just because Grantaire’s used to it doesn’t mean it still doesn’t feel like Satan himself personally crawled out of hell to jam a dull knife in his brain and then drag sandpaper over every one of his nerve endings. His first reaction to consciousness is to groan loudly.

“Good morning to you too,” Jehan’s voice says from somewhere in front of him and a little to the right.

“Mmmmgh,” Grantaire groans again, with feeling. He’s lying on his side and there’s something pressing not-uncomfortably against his back. “Did you prop me up with a pillow last night?”

“Joly was worried you might throw up in your sleep,” Jehan explains. “He and Bossuet wanted to stick around until you woke up, make sure you were okay, but it was getting kind of late so they rolled out.”

“What time is it?”

“About 3:00.”

“You went to bed _after_ me, how the fuck are you awake?” Grantaire tries to open his eyes, and snaps them shut instantly when light pierces his retinas with the force of an atomic bomb. The knife in his brain throbs ominously. “Can you close the blinds?”

“...They are closed.”

“ _Fuuuck_.” Grantaire gropes blindly over his shoulder for the pillow and presses it over his face, rolling onto his back. His words come out muffled. “Why do you need such big-ass windows in your living room anyway?”

“Aesthetic? The benefits of natural light?” Grantaire hears a faint rustle like pages turning. “Eponine’s upstairs, by the way. She said you’d probably need her whenever you woke up.”

“Yeah, in a minute.” Grantaire lies still as his mind attempts to cobble together bits and pieces from the night before -- an automatic reaction by now. “Hey, do you remember seeing me with my face in someone’s tits last night?”

“You mean when the body shots were happening?”

“...There were body shots?” Actually, that does sound familiar now that Jehan mentions it. “No, I don’t think it was then.”

Jehan hums as he considers it. “Well, I didn’t see you put your face anywhere, but you were getting pretty grabby with this one girl. She didn’t seem to be objecting though, if that’s what you’re worried about? I don’t know her name -- little taller than you, dark brown pixie cut, huge boobs?”

“Oh, that’s all right then, I’ve had my face in her tits before. I was worried it might have been Cosette.” Grantaire cautiously lowers the pillow and cracks his eyelids in minute increments, adjusting to the brightness. His immediate surroundings slowly come into focus. “You know there’s an animal skull on your coffee table, right?”

Jehan looks up from where he’s sitting sprawled out in one of his beanbag chairs, an Elizabeth Bishop anthology in his hand and pens of various colors scattered across the coffee table in front of him. “Yeah, that’s Virgil. He’s an ashtray.”

“That’s a relief, for a minute I was worried you didn’t have a practical application for him.” Grantaire suddenly becomes aware of two things. The first is a notable absence: Jehan isn’t wearing a binder. Obviously Grantaire already knows that his friend has breasts, but there’s a difference between knowing something on an abstract level and actually seeing the modestly-sized proof in front of you. Even stranger is what he is wearing, which is a tank top, which never happens.

“Is something interesting?” Jehan says. Grantaire belatedly realizes he’s been staring like an asshole.

He takes a second to weigh his potential responses. “I’ve never seen you in short sleeves before.” It’s as close as he dares get to asking what’s really on his mind.

Of course if there’s one thing a poetry major knows, it’s how to read between the lines. “That’s probably because I don’t usually wear them,” Jehan replies mildly, with a half-smile that says he can tell what they’re actually talking about. His wrists aren’t visible from here, but Grantaire knows what he would see if they were.

He shrugs as much as possible from his supine position. “You’ve got cute freckles,” he says, nodding towards the brown pinpoints sprinkled across Jehan’s shoulders. “You should show them off.”

Jehan rolls his eyes, but his smile gets a little wider. “Now you’re just trying to make me blush.”

“Sweetheart, we never have to _try_ ,” Grantaire says frankly. That makes them both laugh, and then Jehan puts down his book and scoots around until he’s sitting on the floor with his back against the couch, head level with Grantaire’s torso.

He holds up his right arm. “I did these my first week of high school,” he says, his voice a little softer now but otherwise sounding as if this is a completely typical conversation to be having. “It wasn’t a good time.” His finger traces the few puckered white marks below his wrist, then moves further up his arm to one that looks like it was made by a longer and deeper cut. “This one was after some kind of extended family drama -- I can’t even remember what it was exactly, isn’t it funny how that works? Something with my grandfather I think. I just remember feeling like I needed to give myself something else to worry about or I was gonna explode.”

The left arm has more, most of them smaller except for one prominent X carved just above the crook of his elbow. Grantaire hadn’t expected there would be so many. This one after his first break-up, this one when he felt like he couldn’t write anymore without discovering ugly truths about himself, these ones for all of the times he looked in the mirror and hated what he saw.

Jehan shifts his position slightly, turning his head to look at Grantaire for the first time since he’d broached the subject. “Do you have any?”

He asks the question simply, and Grantaire could put on a show of being taken aback, like he doesn’t know why Jehan would think that of him, but he doesn’t want to pretend. So he just says, “It was never my style. I don’t do so good with blood,” and reaches over the edge of the couch to brush his fingers gently against that long scar on the inside of Jehan’s right arm. “How long since the last time?”

“More than two years.”

“That’s great. You should be proud of that,” Grantaire says, hoping the words don’t sound hollow. He really does mean it.

Jehan nods slowly. “I am. It’s not like it’s gone away, but I’ve gotten better at... keeping it out of focus, I guess.”

Grantaire laughs a little, with absolutely no humor behind it. “Yeah, well. It never goes away, that’s kind of the whole problem.”

It’s closer to an admission than he meant to give, and clearly Jehan isn’t going to judge, but he feels an involuntary chill run through him nonetheless because even when he was in therapy for more than a year he never got used to actually being open about this shit. He half wishes he could take the words back. _Please don’t try to ask me about this._

But Jehan just laughs too, in the same way, and lets his head fall back against the couch. “Yeah,” he agrees, and leaves it at that.

Grantaire thinks about how caring and sensitive and _good_ Jehan is, and he doesn’t know what he or the rest of this fucked up world ever did to deserve this kid, he truly doesn’t. He slides his hand further down to grab Jehan’s wrist and pull it up until it’s in front of his face. Then he pulls it a little closer and plants a firm kiss right on top of the scars there.

When he lets go, Jehan is blushing again, but his eyes are soft and bright. “I’m glad we both made it this far, anyway,” he says. “Dying before I met you would have really sucked.”

As corny as the moment feels, there’s a sense of something raw and true buried in it too. Which is probably why Grantaire suddenly feels the remnants of last night’s debauchery wanting to heave their way out of his stomach. “Aw shit, now you’ve done it. Don’t you know that emotions make me nauseous?” He tries to sit up, but only makes it a few inches off the couch before his vision actually blacks out for a second. Satan appears to have given up on the knife in favor of hurling his brain into a blender, along with a coil of red-hot steel wool for good measure. “Okay, that’s not happening.”

Jehan grimaces in sympathy. “You need a trash can?”

“Nah, I just need Eponine, could you get her?”

“Yeah, hang on a second.” Jehan goes over to the ladder that leads up to the loft nestled in the top left corner of the apartment, right above the bathroom and closet. He disappears behind the brightly patterned fabric stretched across the opening and emerges a moment later with Eponine right behind him.

“Did you enjoy your coma?” Eponine asks when she gets down to the living room.

Grantaire turns his head and blinks up at her appealingly. “Time for the morning after ritual.”

“More like the afternoon after ritual at this point,” Eponine says, but she opens the closet and produces a roll of paper towels and a can of Febreze, both of which she sets on the coffee table, and also a plastic bucket which she sets on the floor, where it’s at just the right level for Grantaire to be able to roll over and spew into it.

Jehan makes a small ‘ohh’ sound of realization. “I was wondering why those were on the shopping list yesterday.” Eponine says something in response that Grantaire doesn’t catch over the sound of his stomach contents splattering into the bucket. He tries not to lean so far over that it goes up his nose, but that’s a losing battle as it turns out.

He didn’t even notice Jehan getting up, but suddenly there’s a damp washcloth being pressed to the back of his neck. “You’re a saint,” he groans, closing his eyes and bracing an arm against the rim of the bucket so he can rest his forehead on it. His skin feels sweaty and gross.

“Was last night worth it, at least?”

“Oh yeah, the parts of it I can remember were great,” Grantaire manages before he’s seized by another bout of retching. Jehan murmurs sympathetically and waits for it to pass so he can smooth Grantaire’s hair back and dab the cloth across his forehead. Suddenly Grantaire’s glad for the moment they had been sharing right before this. It’s hard to feel ashamed of needing your friend to play nursemaid to your hangover when said friend was just telling you all about how he used to deal with his problems by slicing himself up. Thank god for the Brotherhood of Questionable Coping Methods.

It doesn’t take long before it’s mostly just dry-heaving -- not like he had any solid food last night after the birthday cake -- but he sticks two fingers down his throat just to be sure. Better to get it all done with now than have more coming back up later. When all he can produce is lots of garbled coughing and a trickle of unidentifiable clear-ish liquid, he figures he’s good and raises his head. “Can you pass me a paper towel?”

Jehan rips one off the roll and hands it to him, and Grantaire blows his nose into it vigorously, trying to clear the remaining traces out of his nasal passage as much as possible. He wads the paper up and drops it in the bucket. “Here,” Jehan says, offering him a glass of water, and Grantaire didn’t notice him getting that either but he’s grateful for it. He swishes some around in his mouth, gargles, spits into the bucket, then swallows the next sip. It aches a bit in his empty stomach, and it carries a sour flavor down, but at least his esophagus feels less like the dust bowl on fire.

Eponine walks out of the kitchen with a plate in one hand and a bloody mary in the other. “That sounded productive.”

Grantaire grabs for the glass, but she sidesteps him and holds out the plate instead. “Uh-uh, you know the rules. Toast first.”

“Come on,” Grantaire whines. “Take pity. Anything I eat is not gonna stay down and you know it.”

“We’ll find out, won’t we?” Eponine actually sets the plate _on_  his chest and stares him down until he finally takes a bite. “Good boy.”

“I hate you,” Grantaire mumbles as he chews. Even with the thin layer of jam on top, the toast manages to taste like a bland sponge that’s sucking up what little moisture he has left in his mouth. It feels like an hour before he swallows the last of it. The only other thing on the plate was a couple tablets of aspirin, which he pops into his mouth while impatiently gesturing for the glass.

Eponine sighs as she hands it to him. “You know how everyone is supposed to have that one vodka aunt? That’s you. You’re my vodka aunt.”

The drink is wonderfully cool as it washes the aspirin down, and the alcohol burns away the last lingering aftertaste of vomit. “I am everyone’s vodka aunt,” Grantaire says in between sips.

“Even if we already have one?” Jehan asks.

“I will fight her for dominance,” Grantaire replies seriously. “There can only be one alpha.”

“There’s a pitch for a god-awful reality show in there somewhere,” Eponine says as she whisks the bucket away to the bathroom. They hear the toilet flush, and she returns with it empty, spraying some Febreze in it for good measure. She sprays a few quick bursts in the air too, and Grantaire puts a protective hand over the rim of his glass to block any of the airborne particles from getting to it before they dissolve.

“Watch out, I’ve got an open beverage here, are you trying to poison me?”

“You’re literally sitting there destroying your own liver and _I'm_ the poisoner now?”

There’s a knock on the door, which turns out to be Montparnasse with an armful of clothes. “Where’s my tip?”

“Fuck off.” Eponine grabs the clothes from him. “Hey Jehan, I’m gonna take a shower real quick if that’s okay?”

“Sure, go ahead and use whatever you need. There’s towels under the sink.”

Montparnasse saunters over to the couch and sits down at the opposite end, kicking his jet-black boots up smoothly onto the coffee table. “Smells like something the cat threw up over here.” He raises his voice deliberately. “What’s up, Grantaire? How you feeling?”

Grantaire doesn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing him wince. “Whoever told you you were funny did the world a huge disservice.”

“That bad, huh?” Montparnasse smirks. “Did you get laid last night at least?”

“How could I? You left too early.”

“Boys, play nice.” Jehan returns to his seat and picks up his book and pen again. Grantaire had been expecting that he would disappear upstairs to change into something more concealing. He waits to see if Montparnasse will show any kind of reaction, but the other boy just leans forward to help himself to a cigarette from the pack that’s lying on the table next to Virgil.

“Reading anything good?”

“Mm.” Jehan scribbles something on the page. “Environmentalism doubling as anti-war propaganda, multi-layered commentary on human shortsightedness, just another day at the office.”

Montparnasse cranes his neck to get a look at the poem and scoffs. “How the fuck do you take that many notes on something that’s not even a page and a half?”

“That’s poetry.” Jehan shrugs. “You can find something new in it every time if you’re trying.”

The look on Montparnasse’s face as he shakes his head is equal parts disturbed and fascinated, like someone at the zoo watching a manatee blow itself. “I can’t believe you actually pay thousands of dollars a year to go to school for this. You people are ridiculous.” It’s his standard criticism of suburbanite bullshit, but it comes off more like banter.

For once, Grantaire chooses to stay silent as he nurses his hangover cure and observes the two of them. If he was surprised that Jehan feels comfortable enough to go binder-less in front of him and Eponine, he’s even more surprised that the same comfort level extends to Montparnasse, who he’s never known to be particularly sensitive. Though admittedly he doesn’t know Montparnasse that well. Clearly not as well as Jehan does. He wonders what he’s missing here.

Eponine’s out of the bathroom a few minutes later, wet hair pulled back in a ponytail and clothes from last night bundled under her arm. “Think you can manage the walk down to the car?” she asks Grantaire.

Grantaire sucks a concerned breath in through his teeth. “I don’t know, you’re asking a lot.”

“Yeah, well, get over it. We’re not carrying you.” Eponine walks over to give Jehan a one-armed hug. “Thanks for all the help yesterday, babe. And for letting me crash in your bed.”

Montparnasse’s finger slips where he’s stubbing his Marlboro out into the concave top of Virgil’s skull. “Aww, you two are having pajama parties now?”

“You jealous?” Jehan asks in a singsong voice. Montparnasse rolls his eyes and says something in rapid Spanish that makes Jehan laugh.

Eponine pointedly ignores both of them (if she even understands what was said, Grantaire knows her Spanish is rudimentary at best) and grabs Grantaire’s elbow to hoist him slowly but firmly off the couch. “Come on, feet on the floor.”

“Ughhh,” Grantaire mumbles eloquently, leaning on her and using the straw to chase down the last dregs of his drink. Jehan suddenly gasps.

“Oh wait, don’t forget your presents!” He climbs up to the loft and returns a moment later carrying a shopping bag which he hands to Grantaire. “The book is in there too, I put it upstairs with the rest of your stuff so it would be safe.”

_Book?_ Grantaire opens the bag and glances inside. The red and yellow cover of _Shakespeare’s Insults_ stares back up at him, and Enjolras’ disapproving stare comes whizzing back into his memory. _Oh right_.

He’s anxious to assess the damage, but he waits until they’ve left the building, gotten into Montparnasse’s car (“Just so we’re clear, this isn’t actually your car, right?” “Wouldn’t you rather have plausible deniability? I already changed the plates anyway.”), and are driving back to his apartment before he asks. “So, uh, did you happen to see when Enjolras left last night?”

He feels Eponine shift as she thinks about it. They’re in the back of the car, him stretched out across the seat with his head in her lap. “Didn’t notice exactly, but I know he wasn’t there to see you almost choke yourself trying to deep-throat a banana.”

“Small blessings. Should I ask you what’s the worst thing he _was_ there to see, or am I better off not knowing?”

“Actually, it was a pretty average night up until then. Threw up on yourself a little and jumped on the kitchen counter screaming along to Blank Space at the top of your lungs, but nothing more embarrassing than that.”

Grantaire breathes an internal sigh of relief. Okay, so Enjolras knows firsthand now that he’s a loud sloppy drunk, but that’s nothing that wasn’t already public knowledge anyway. Nothing near as personal as what he was afraid he might have revealed, given the opportunity and lack of inhibition. “Wow, my karma must not be as bad as I thought. Anyway if I was on a counter singing Blank Space I know for damn sure Courfeyrac was up there with me, so.”

“He had some pretty intense choreography going on too,” Eponine confirms. Grantaire can imagine -- Courfeyrac’s been known to waste entire afternoons in his room mastering Beyonce dance routines, though he would surely argue the time was anything but wasted.

The car goes over a bump in the road and Grantaire winces as the jolt sends his organs sloshing around. “Dude, there’s fragile cargo back here, you wanna be a little more careful?”

“Nobody likes a backseat driver,” Montparnasse replies by way of apology.

“Yeah, and I bet you won’t like it when I puke tomato juice all over the upholstery either.” Grantaire turns over so he’s on his back, looking up at Eponine, because he wants to see her face when he says what he’s about to say next. “So I’m missing a lot of details from last night, obviously, but I do remember winding up on the roof.”

“Oh, you mean when you showed us all your dick?”

“Hey now. You make it sound like I was waving it around in people’s faces. Can’t a man just urinate off the top of a building in peace? Anyway, I’m not talking about that, I’m talking about the fact that you were up there despite the presence of two people who have remained nameless in our conversations thus far, except maybe they no longer need to remain nameless since apparently you CAN occupy the same space as them without spontaneously combusting?”

Eponine purses her lips and breaks eye contact before he’s done talking to stare adamantly out the window, which is a giveaway all by itself. “Figures you would notice _only_ the most useless shit when you’re that wasted.”

“Figures I would notice only what you didn’t want me to notice, you mean.” Grantaire pokes her in the ribs. “Come on, what changed? Did something happen with you guys?”

He doesn’t expect an immediate answer, knows that Eponine needs to work herself up to admitting her petty grudge was just that. Sure enough, after a moment of heavy silence, Eponine says, “I talked to Cosette.”

“And?”

“And what? We talked. I got shit off my chest. We’re good now.”

“Who’s Cosette?” Montparnasse asks.

Eponine kicks the back of his seat. “If we don’t get to backseat drive, you don’t get to frontseat participate in this conversation.”

“Oh what, so I’m just your chauffeur now?”

“Yes,” Eponine replies, in a tone that declares the matter is not up for discussion.

Grantaire drops his voice a little. “So you and Marius…”

“Yeah.” It’s just one word, technically not a real answer, but Eponine’s inflection and her accompanying grimace gives it all the meaning it needs. “It is what it is. I’m gonna try to be friends with him, I think. Like actual friends instead of just silently wishing I could jump his bones all the time.”

“Does he know? About any of it, I mean.”

“No, and he’s never going to. Things are weird enough between us already.”

“I don’t know, it’s gotta be less weird now than it’s been for the last three months, right?” She doesn’t answer, and Grantaire feels a pang of sympathy. Eponine’s never been the type to get hung up on people -- Marius was a first for her, in a big way. He knows how hard it is for her to let this go. “Hey, at least there’s a silver lining. You’ll never have to worry about your mom skinning you alive for dating a guy who’s browner than you.”

Eponine snorts. “Right. Maybe I’ll bring a black dude home next just to really piss her off. Is Joly doing anything next weekend?”

“You know,” Montparnasse interjects, “if you wanted to piss her off, you should really bring home a black _girl_.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Eponine says dryly. Her shoulders slowly relax, and yeah, Grantaire’s gonna be a little lonelier now that he’s the only one of them stranded in miserable unrequited crush territory, but he’s glad for her.

Then, because he’s him and he can’t resist pushing people’s buttons, he clears his throat. “Not to say I told you so…” he begins innocently.

“ _I swear to god_ ,” Eponine says through gritted teeth.

“...but I do seem to remember telling you that you’d get along with her if you tried.”

“You’re right,” Eponine deadpans. “I don’t know why I even make decisions for myself. I should just listen to you, all the time, and then my life would be perfect just like yours is.”

“Ah, sarcasm,” Grantaire says, closing his eyes and nodding sagely. “The last refuge of the lost cause. I should know.”

He feels Eponine’s finger flick him sharply on the tip of his nose. “Asshole,” she mutters, but when he opens his eyes, she’s gazing out the window again with a look on her face that isn’t exactly angry. It isn’t exactly happy either, but it’s an improvement, he thinks.

*

It’s truly unfortunate that Grantaire lives on the third floor of his building, because even the thought of climbing stairs right now is exhausting. By the time they get to his door Eponine is practically carrying him despite her earlier refusal. She really is a great friend. “You really are a great friend. I feel like I don’t tell you that enough.”

“Probably not,” Eponine agrees. “Where’s your key?”

Grantaire digs it out of his pocket, but when he goes to put it in the lock it doesn’t turn. “Ugh, come on.”

“Here, let me.” Eponine grabs the handle and jiggles it, then frowns. “It’s already open. Did you not lock up last night?”

“No, he did,” comes a voice from behind the door as it swings open. Gavroche blinks up at them. “Wow, you look like death. Guess you had a good birthday.”

“Brilliant deduction, Holmes.” Grantaire shuffles past him and inside so he can keel over limply onto his futon. The sofa’s closer, but Azelma’s already sitting there.

Eponine closes the door behind her, frowning. “How long have you guys been here?”

“Maybe an hour,” Azelma says, gesturing vaguely. “Power’s off at home.”

The news doesn’t seem to come as a surprise to Eponine. “Dad doing anything about it?”

Gavroche scoffs. “You mean anything responsible? Doubt it. We ducked out when he left to go buy more beer.”

He doesn’t even sound resentful when he says it, which is the worst part. He just tosses it out there like he’s discussing last night’s baseball scores instead of his fucked up household. Grantaire’s insides squirm in a way that has nothing to do with his hangover. Even though he’s known the Thenardier kids for years, it still feels like he’s intruding on something private whenever he hears them actually talk about their shitty excuses for parents. Not like his own home life was exactly healthy, but at least his parents never dropped the ball on basic necessities like food and water and electricity and clean clothes and god knows what else.

“We figured it’d be better if we got out of the way,” Azelma adds. “You know, just before anything got worse.”

Eponine exchanges a long, significant look with her siblings, then sighs resolutely. “Are you hungry? I’m hungry.”

“I could eat a cow,” Gavroche confirms immediately.

“Don’t talk about food,” Grantaire moans, curling in on himself.

Eponine ignores him. “There’s a Thai place down the street, come on. Montparnasse is buying.”

“Does he know that?” Gavroche asks with a hint of amusement.

“Does it matter?” Eponine walks over and squats down next to the futon, bending over until her face is right next to Grantaire’s ear. In a voice low enough so he’s the only one who can understand her, she says, “We might need to stay here tonight, I’m sorry, I know you don’t have that much room...”

“S’fine,” Grantaire mumbles back, reaching out to give her knee a sort of reassuring squeeze. “Whatever you need.”

“Thank you,” Eponine whispers, kissing him on the head before she leaves.

Grantaire isn’t really aware of falling asleep -- one minute he’s tossing and turning trying to get comfortable, the next he’s blinking the drowsiness out of his eyes and he can’t tell whether he was out for ten minutes or a couple hours.

The Thenardiers plus Montparnasse are all piled on the couch watching something on the laptop, surrounded by takeout containers. The air is filled with the smell of various sauces and Grantaire feels his body reacting before he’s conscious enough to brace for it.

He makes a beeline for the bathroom, pressing his forehead against the cool porcelain of the toilet bowl when he gets there. Emptying out his stomach feels mechanical at this point. In the back of his brain he registers that his body hasn’t actually absorbed any nutrients in almost 24 hours, and isn’t it amazing that, emotionally speaking, he doesn’t feel noticeably shittier than on any other given day? There’s probably some doctors somewhere who would love to run a study on him.

He opens his medicine cabinet, curses, makes a mental note to buy some more alka-seltzer, then pops an ibuprofen as compensation and ventures back out into the apartment. It’s a tight fit on the couch, but he squeezes in next to Azelma, who shifts around to make more cushion space and ends up half in his lap. She leans her head back against his shoulder, a position made slightly awkward by the fact that she’s actually a bit taller than him, but he props his arm up for more leverage and they make it work.

“Saved you some shrimp,” Montparnasse says from the other end of the couch.

“Blow me.”

Apparently they’ve been taking advantage of somebody’s Netflix account to binge watch The Office. They’re in the middle of an episode when Eponine’s phone starts buzzing. She checks the screen, rolls her eyes and shoves it back in her pocket. Grantaire doesn’t think anything of it, but then Montparnasse’s phone rings next.

“Are you _kidding_ me, don’t answer that,” Eponine says, but Montparnasse already has the phone up to his ear.

“Hey. What? Yeah, she is.” He nudges Eponine. “It’s your dad.”

“I know,” Eponine snaps at him, snatching his phone and shoving herself off the couch in one fluid motion. Gavroche moves to pause the episode, but she waves for him to keep it going as she heads outside. “What the fuck do you want?” they hear her say before she shuts the door behind her.

Gavroche shoots Montparnasse the kind of gravely judgemental look that only a child is capable of. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I can’t take sides in your little family dramas, you know that,” Montparnasse replies. “Anyway, it’s not like ignoring him is gonna help.”

“How would you know,” Azelma says just a little scathingly, “you’ve never had any parents to test that theory on.”

Grantaire clears his throat loudly and stands up. “Wow, I am really thirsty all of a sudden, anybody want some water?”

Luckily Montparnasse has enough maturity to not rise to the bait of a sixteen-year-old. Or maybe not having parents genuinely doesn’t bother him -- not like Grantaire would be able to tell, he didn’t even know Montparnasse was an orphan. Seems like he keeps learning all kinds of new things about people today.

About ten minutes pass before Eponine comes back inside looking like a storm cloud. She tosses Montparnasse his phone. “We gotta go.”

“What’s going on?” Gavroche asks.

“Just the normal bullshit,” Eponine says, shaking her head wearily. “Don’t worry about it. You two are okay staying here for the night, yeah?”

Azelma and Gavroche nod in agreement. Eponine kicks Montparnasse on the shin. “ _Up_ , pendejo.”

“Why are you so violent,” Montparnasse grumbles as he stands.

“Why are you such a pussy,” Eponine retorts, stepping past him to hug her siblings. When she gets to Grantaire, he holds her for longer than necessary, tightening his arms when she starts to move away.

She indulges him for a second before she pulls back a little roughly. Her mouth twists sideways. “Don’t let them stay up too late, they’ve got school tomorrow.” She turns and bumps Montparnasse with her shoulder. “Come on.”

The air in the room feels dead after they’ve left, and Gavroche and Azelma both agree they’re not really in the mood to watch any more comedy tonight. Grantaire scans the Netflix catalogue mindlessly, trying not to think about Eponine heading out into the night to do god-knows-what. He’s pointed out more than once that she’s eighteen with a high school diploma, she could get a real job, but she always writes the suggestion off with vague excuses. She’s never come out and said it but Grantaire gets the impression that her parents wouldn’t hesitate to sabotage her attempts at employment so she’ll remain available for occasions like tonight. Honestly, what kind of absolute scumbags.

Eventually Grantaire notices he’s cycled through the same set of tv shows at least three times. He throws on The Twilight Zone just to be done with it and sits back on the couch, raking a hand through his hair.

Gavroche is flipping through _Shakespeare’s Insults_. “Dude, this book is a trip. I don’t think half these words even exist anymore. Who gave you this?”

“Enjolras.” _And Combeferre_ , his brain reminds him, but he thinks he’s allowed to selectively focus on this small victory if he wants. Especially since it’s likely the closest thing to a tangible display of friendship he’s ever bound to get.

“Oooh, your _boyfriend_?” Gavroche abandons the book and leans forward conspiratorially, eyebrows waggling.

“He’s not my boyfriend. The words ‘Enjolras’ and ‘my boyfriend’ aren’t even in neighboring universes.” Grantaire heaves a drawn-out, theatrical sigh. “I’m telling you kids, stay away from men. There’s nothing but despair and masochism down that road.”

Azelma side-eyes him. “Gosh, I’m sure as a teenage lesbian I’ll find that advice very useful, thanks.”

“You’re like, starring in your own daytime soap opera,” Gavroche says with a gleefulness that Grantaire resents. “When do you guys have those meetings? I wanna come bring popcorn and watch. Now see, she’s laughing but I’m dead serious.”

“A, my one-sided love life is not for public consumption. B, it’s a college club,” Grantaire points out.

“So? You’re not in college.”

“I’m also not thirteen.”

Gavroche scoffs. “Physically, no. Mentally? I’m not convinced. Anyway Enjolras would love it, yeah? Connecting with the ‘at-risk youth’ and all that shit.”

A memory of fists raised in mutual salute suddenly stirs in the back of Grantaire’s mind. He’d forgotten about it with everything else that had happened that day, but -- “Hang on, hang on, that’s actually something I meant to ask you. The other day, at the book fair? Had you met him before that or something?”

“How many times do I have to tell you I know everybody in this town?” Gavroche reclines backwards, folding his arms behind his head and swinging one leg up to rest on the back of the couch. “I ran into him one time doing some grocery shopping. Didn’t know he was the same guy you had a giant ridiculous crush on, of course.”

Grantaire tries and fails to picture Enjolras grocery shopping. It’s such a mundane, human activity, and Enjolras doesn’t even seem like he needs to consume sustenance. Enjolras looks like a Greek god who lives off of ambrosia and burnt offerings of slaughtered politicians.

Meanwhile, Azelma has a different takeaway from the details of that story. “When you say grocery shopping…”

“...I _might_ have been raiding the produce section and he _might_ have noticed.”

Azelma laughs. “YOU got caught shoplifting?”

Gavroche scowls like his pride’s been wounded -- which it has, Grantaire supposes. “I didn’t think he was gonna do anything because like, what kind of self-respecting teenager cares about some kid stealing fruit? But he walks up to me in the middle of the aisle and starts _lecturing_ me about how shoplifting hurts minimum wage employees, and I’m _trying_ to educate him about how the stealing-gets-taken-out-of-employee-paychecks thing is a myth made up by guilty ass liberals like him somewhere, but he’s not hearing it.”

Now _this_ part Grantaire can picture all too clearly. He’s not sure whether he wants to laugh or cry. Gavroche continues. “So finally I’m like buddy, you can sit up on your high horse all goddamn day but some of us gotta eat. So then he bought me lunch.”

Grantaire startles. “Wait, really?”

“Yeah, and I told him I don’t do charity, and he’s like ‘well that’s fine, I’m doing this for the store workers, not you.’ He’s on another level,” Gavroche laughs. “But he does put his money where is mouth is at least. I’m kind of glad you’re finally interested in somebody decent instead of the douchewaffles you usually date.”

“Wow, thanks.” He does have a point though. Grantaire’s exes are, almost uniformly, cynical druggies who half the appeal in dating lay in being able to bring them around the house to piss his parents off. That, and the sex, and the easy access to recreational substances. He had very definite priorities in high school.

It’s another reason why his persistent attachment to Enjolras makes no sense. Then again, pining after someone this unattainable is likely to fuck him up as much as his misguided teenage flings did, albeit in a different way. Maybe he really does just have it in for himself.

They spend the rest of the evening making fun of and being creeped out by various Twilight Zone episodes in equal measure, and by the time Grantaire realizes it’s nearly 11:00 Azelma is already nodding off against his shoulder. He lets the two of them take the futon, relegating himself to the couch for the night. They’ll have to go back to their place in the morning for their school things and a change of clothes, but with any luck the proverbial storm will have passed by then.

When he wakes up next morning to see them off, he finds Eponine curled up like a cat on the bottom half of the futon, using Azelma’s legs as a pillow, and he wants to feel relieved but he mostly just feels sad.


End file.
